Stroke of Shadows: A Dark Paranormal

Romance (Curse of the Guardians Book

5) Taylor Aston White
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Stroke of Shadows
CURSE OF THE GUARDIANS BOOK FIVE

TAYLOR ASTON WHITE

 Contents

Disclaimer
Breed Index
Shadow-Veyn Index
Prologue
1. Harper
2. Sythe
3. Harper
4. Sythe
5. Sythe
6. Harper
7. Harper
8. Sythe
9. Harper
10. Sythe
11. Sythe
12. Harper
13. Sythe
14. Harper
15. Sythe
16. Sythe
17. Harper
18. Sythe
19. Harper
20. Sythe
21. Sythe
22. Harper
23. Sythe
24. Sythe
25. Sythe
26. Harper
27. Sythe
28. Harper
29. Harper
30. Harper
31. Sythe
32. Harper
33. Sythe
34. Harper
35. Sythe
36. Sythe
37. Harper
38. Sythe
39. Harper
40. Sythe
41. Sythe
42. Harper
Epilogue
Also by Taylor Aston White
Contact
About the Author
Copyright © 2024 by Dark Wolf Publishing
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Edited by Sarah Wentworth

Cover by Miblart

www.taylorastonwhite.com
Official Taylor Aston White Newsletter
 Disclaimer

Stroke of Shadows is a dark paranormal romance that contains explicit content, graphic violence, profanity, and topics that may
be sensitive to some readers.

Trigger warnings:
Graphic gore/death, torture, threats of sexual assault, attempted rape, domestic violence, anti-religion, racism against Breed,
emotional abuse, drug use and sexually explicit scenes.
This book is written in British English, including spelling and grammar.
 Breed Index

Celestrial - Also known as 'angels.' Can lose their powers and wings, known as 'falling’
Magic class - Unknown
Origin realm - Unknown
Other - Once a celestrial has fallen, they're rumoured to be as weak as humans, but none have openly confirmed (See Fallen
Angel)

Daemon - Druids who choose to ascend into black magic. In return for more power, they sacrifice their bodies and sanity
Magic class - Black
Origin realm - The Nether (also known as Hell)
Other - Once imprisoned in The Nether, they now freely move between realms
Druid - Born male, druid genes are inherited from the fathers
Magic class - Natural/Arcane. Can be strengthened with Ley Lines
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Breed governed by the Archdruid. When they come of age they must tattoo a syphon, known as a glyph, around their
wrists to better control their arcane

Guardian - Druids who were cursed to share their soul with a 'beast.’ Their bodies, including their ‘beast’ form, are designed
to battle Daemons, with increased strength, agility and ability to survive severe damage
Magic class - Natural/Arcane. Can be strengthened with Ley Lines and glyphs
Origin realm - Earth Side
Beast - Unknown
Other - The Archdruid made the deal with Hadriel, the Fallen Angel who powers The Nether, creating the curse in return
for soldiers

Fae - Umbrella term for anyone from Far Side. Includes faeries, selkies, pixies etc. Split into two castes, light (Seelie) and
dark (Unseelie)
Magic class - Wild Magic
Origin realm - Asherah of Far (also known as Far Side)
Other - Never say thank you, and be wary of gifts (Fae stuff seem to have a mind of their own)

Fallen Angels - Celestrials that have ‘fallen’

Magic class - Unknown
Origin realm - Unknown, but now reside on Earth Side
Other - Hide themselves amongst humans, always trying to regain their wings
Ghoul - Name for a failed vampire transition. Primal instincts only
Magic class - N/A
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Killed on sight

Human - Class themselves as the 'original' species on Earth Side. They have no access to their chi
Magic class - N/A
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Make over 60% of the population

Shifter - Born with a animal spirit, able to transform into said animal
Magic class - N/A
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Are not infectious, despite rumours. Usually live in groups/packs with a strict hierarchy
Witch - Humans who were gifted the ability to access their chi. Magic originated from the four elements, diluting through
generations
Magic class - Arcane (balls of concentrated chi), Natural (plants) and Black (blood/death)
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Rumoured that it was Fae royalty who originally gifted humans magic

Vampire - Humans who’ve been infected by the Vampira virus

Magic class - N/A
Origin realm - Earth Side
Other - Low success rate, resulting in death and/or Ghouls. If turn is successful they must feed from a live source, surviving
on proteins found in fresh blood
 Shadow-Veyn Index

Shadow-Veyn are wild creatures easily influenced by Daemons. They hide themselves from the general populace with glamour,
but lower class cannot hide their shadows (hence their name)
Magic class - N/A
Origin realm - The Nether (Hell)
Other - Along with Daemons, they’re no longer imprisoned in The Nether. Feed upon flesh, and as of yet, no evidence that
they breed

Classifications -
A - Small. Weak. Used as scouts.
B - Venomous. Covered in black fur.
C - Can heal using dark vapour.
D - Scales as strong as armour, as well as fur.
E - Defined by sheer size, and extra bones along spine.
 Prologue

SYTHE

T
here was something beautiful about a grown man whimpering like a child and begging for his mother. Music to Sythe’s
ears, considering he didn’t usually get to deal with the torturing side of stuff.
But George, the bastard, was one of the most loyal people he’d ever had the honour of tormenting, and Sythe
would’ve been impressed if the scum wasn’t a member of the one organisation he held a personal grudge against.
“Now,” Sythe all but purred, his smile making even the strongest flinch. It was too friendly, too open to interpretation.
Was he simply a happy guy? Or was he just bat-shit crazy?
“Are you going to co-operate? Or is my friend here going to remove your pathetic excuse of a dick with a rusty spoon?”
Sythe purposely dropped his eyes to the piss stain on George’s trousers, and then to Jax, who glowered at him from the
shadows.
‘What?’ he asked his brother, connecting their minds telepathically. ‘Too much?’
Jax blinked, the briefest flash of his beast appearing before it swirled back into his usual icy glare. ‘You don’t know the
meaning of ‘too much.’’
Sythe could hear the subtle humour in his brother’s tone, even if his scowl–an almost permanent fixture on Jax’s face–said
different.
‘He’s not budging,’ Jax continued, cracking his knuckles. ‘You’ve lost your touch. Let me have a go.’
‘And take all the glory when he finally does crack?’ Sythe snorted a laugh, making George’s eyes widen further. ‘You’re
almost as bad as Kace.’
A quiet grunt from the corner. ‘At least I know how to share.’
Sythe let out a full-blown laugh, the sound startling in the dark, concrete room.
“You’re fucking crazy,” George spat, blood trickling gently from the corner of his lips.
“And you’re one stubborn fuck who’s about to lose his precious dick, and for what?” Sythe braced his palms on George’s
thighs, right above the lacerations that were just deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill. Yet. “A guy who doesn’t give a fuck
about you.”
The first sign of uncertainty clouded over his eyes, giving Sythe the inch he needed.
Thank those traitorous Fates.
“We despise people like you,” George growled, but there was less anger than before, fear a gentle quiver as he finally
accepted his situation. “Inferior against God’s perfect image, one of strength and intelligence. We don’t need magic to be
whole. We’re exactly as we’re meant to be, and I hope the light burns you in its presence.”
Sythe cocked his head, his fingers digging into George’s muscles until he sucked in a pained breath. “Don’t worry, it
already burns.”
Jax flicked his gaze over, but Sythe ignored the flare of concern, needing to concentrate. He would not lose the fucking bet.
“You’re all just leeches, ruining this once normal world,” George said.
They were words Sythe had heard many times, thrown at him, and all those that weren’t entirely human for as long as Breed
had shared the earth. Which was fucking forever, but around three hundred years since the shit really hit the fan. After the Great
War, Breed were finally acknowledged as citizens. Humans accepted that they weren’t alone, and over the centuries, the
prejudice had fizzled to nothing. Well, almost nothing.
The Church of the Light had grown in presence over the last few years, a place in which humans went to worship hostile
Gods and condemn those that were different. They may not have the most followers, but they sure as fuck shouted the loudest.
The Church of the Light would stop at nothing to share their toxic ideologies.
They were dangerous. Terrorists. And recently, they’d seen a suspicious amount of Daemonic activity within their ranks.
Fucking ironic, if you asked him, but it was his job to figure out why and put a stop to it.
“Your own friend abandoned you to a very Breed you despise. Forgotten you, and yet you remain loyal to him rather than
your Gods.” Sythe enjoyed studying people. Watching every twitch of muscle, every drip of sweat along their brow and how
their eyes betrayed emotions.
“You know nothing.” George licked across his broken bottom lip, wincing as it met a small cut.
“Let the Light guide you,” Sythe said, forcing the phrase out calmly, a friend rather than the enemy. “Tell me about Wyatt
Beauchamp. Tell me what I want to know, and you can receive sanctuary within the light.” The words were acid on his tongue.
“Your Gods will welcome you for your courage,” Jax added, his voice a deep grumble. “For your continued fight for the
cause. Mr Beauchamp will not.”
Brows pressing together, George’s attention flickering between them both. “You don’t know—”
“He’d be disappointed,” Sythe interrupted gently, fuelling that spark of doubt. “Angry that his best friend was so easily
caught. Do you think he’ll believe you when you say you didn’t break? That you didn’t crumble against our interrogation?”
Sythe called arcane to his hand, hovering it over George’s thigh. The magical flames licked out, brushing, burning the already
seeping wounds.
“Please… don’t,” he choked out, tears streaking down his cheeks, over the bruises that had started to mottle beneath his
skin.
“Let the Light guide you,” Sythe repeated, forcing himself not to grin as George’s shoulders softened into a defeated slouch.
“And all this will be over.”
“What… what do you want to know?”
Excitement made Sythe fidgety, his movements erratic as he fired question after question, each answer another puzzle piece
slotting together inside his mind. He wanted to know everything, every insignificant little detail that would help build the
perfect character to interact with Wyatt fucking Beauchamp.
He wanted to know where he hung out, his friends if he had them, and the parties he’d regularly attend. He needed to know
the type of drugs he preferred, and even his fucking shoe size.
“Last one,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Why Daemons?”
George frowned. “What are—”
Sythe sliced his throat with a quick flick of his wrist. “Absolutely useless piece of shit.”
The blood was hot against his skin, his right arm aching at the unwanted heat, but he ignored the pain. Knowing it wasn’t
real.
“Well,” he said, wiping the blade against his own thigh. “Not entirely useless, but he didn’t know anything about the
possessions.” He was sure of it, his ability to read people pretty damn good if he said so himself.
“So, who’s Wyatt Beauchamp?” Jax still leaned relaxed against the back wall, his thick arms crossed.
Sythe turned to his brother. “Come on, big guy. Surely you recognise the surname at least?”
“Beauchamp?” Jax frowned for a second. “As in the Beauchamps?”
“Bingo.” Sythe carefully cleaned the blood splatter from his right arm, the skin bare to the air, while his left was covered in
fighting leathers. “This fucker happens to be tight with Wyatt Beauchamp, the heir to the Beauchamp estate.”
The Beauchamps were one of the oldest families in the city, and well known in many of the higher society social circles.
Their name adorned golden plaques, hospital wings, as well as a whole section of the British museum.
“Fucking hell, Sy.” Jax rubbed a hand down his face. “So why him and not the father?”
Sythe had been working for weeks with his network, untangling the weeds of the Church of the Light and figuring out who
was behind the organisation. There were whispers, rumours that a certain family could gain a personal visit from the Leader.
That they had influence over the church.
The deeper Sythe dug into the Beauchamps, the more dirt he found. Angel Beauchamp was the CEO, president, and the
chairman of a selection of luxury art galleries with a rumoured net worth in the billions. On the outside, he was the aristocratic
man with a surname as old as the city, but beneath the surface, there was something corrupt.
People connected to them would go missing. Accusers, business competitors, and even detectives. No charges would stick,
despite the RAP sheet for Wyatt was almost as long as his own. His father, on the other hand, was squeaky clean.
“Angel Beauchamp’s old money is surrounded by distrust and security. He’s supposed to be ruthless in his personal life as
well as his business.”
It would take him too long to infiltrate if he struck Angel head on. Months, if not years. And Sythe didn’t want to go dark for
years, estranged from his brothers. His family.
No, he needed to be discreet. Infiltrate at a weaker link and bring the family down from the inside out. Cut off the money,
and the church will crumble.
Jax straightened, brow raising. “There’s other ways to do this, Sy. You don’t have to go dark.”
“Dude, it’s rude to read thoughts that weren’t meant for you.” Sythe shook his head, then pushed his brother from his mind.
“No one else can do what I do.”
“What, be a narcissistic arsehole?” A smirk, one that caused Jax’s facial scar to distort his upper lip.
Sythe grinned, placing a palm against the centre of his chest. “Ouch, brother. You’re mean when you’re jealous.”
Jax simply shook his head. “I assume Angel’s the money behind the church’s sudden growth.”
“According to my network, yes.” Sythe had recruited men, women, and a few children over the years to be his eyes and
ears over the city and beyond. He paid his team generously, as well as offering his own services, and sometimes that of his
brothers, if needed. They were heavily vetted, and usually people he’d helped in the past. They were loyal, and he had utter
trust in the information they’d provided. “Angel may not run the church in name, but money controls everything.”
“The Beauchamp’s are your way into the Church.”
“Precisely. I’m going to use the stupid, drug addicted son to get closer to the dad, and then—”
“You’ll gain access to the Church of the Light where you can figure out their connection to Daemons and possibly Gideon,”
Jax said, almost bored.
It had been almost two years since the veil between the realms had broken, allowing the Daemons who were once
imprisoned their freedom. Once, not that long ago, the Guardians would have hunted down every single Daemon and destroyed
them just because of what they were. It was what they were trained to do. What they were brainwashed to believe.
Black magic corrupted the person over time, eating away at their minds until not much of the original man was left. But
magic wasn’t an exact science, and it was Lucifer who’d convinced them that not every Daemon deserved judgement. No, only
those that actively sought power. And where power was, usually death followed.
Gideon was once the leader of the Daemons, according to Lucifer. The king, with Bishop his second in command. Together,
they were a force to be reckoned with.
Good thing the Guardians were created to destroy them.
“Fucking hell, J. Don’t get too excited or you may blow a vein. You make all my detective work sound as thrilling as paint
drying.” Sythe kicked at George’s limp leg before glancing up. “Least I won the bet. Guess you’ll be partnered with Lucy next
hunt. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll behave.”
A low grumble in his chest. “You’ll find he broke because of my words, not yours.”
“Fuck no, he broke because I’ve spent the last twenty-odd hours pulling his finger and toe nails off. Which means I won.”
Sythe’s smirk grew as Jax’s scowl deepened. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you take care of old Georgy boy here, too. Shouldn’t
take too long to dispose and clean.”
Jax straightened to his full height, which topped Sythe’s six three by a few inches. “You’re an arsehole.”
Sythe patted his brother on the shoulder as he passed. “What can I say, I'm in a giving mood.”
 Chapter 1

Harper

H
arper hated being somewhere so busy, preferring to keep to herself as much as possible. She hated the crowds, the not-
so-subtle glances and impolite whispers whenever she was in the room. She knew no one was looking at her right then,
the people that attended Nightshade an entirely different type to what she usually was forced to socialise with.
No one knew her.
No one knew her name.
No one cared about the ugly brand on her back, or the meaning behind it.
“You look weird,” the woman beside her commented, sipping what must be her fifth cocktail, counting from the empty
glasses beside her. “Like you’re about to go into a business meeting or something.”
Harper sipped at her own drink, her first and last if she wanted to keep a clear head. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”
“Really?” The red-head turned to lean her elbow on the bar, eyes slightly glassy. “At Nightshade?”
Harper couldn’t help her smile. “Apparently.” Not that she understood why Mr Beckett wanted to meet her in such a public
place. She’d worn a low cut dress with long sleeves, the fabric stretching over her hips and thighs and hit just below her knees.
It had been picked out for her, as was everything she wore.
To tease, but not touch, was her uncle’s favourite saying when it came to her attire.
Her hair was purposely kept down, hiding any exposed skin on her back.
“That’s cool, I guess.” The woman blinked, the movement slower than it should be. “I’m Clover, but you can call me Clo.
You have a weirdly beautiful face.”
Harper simply smiled, hoping to be left alone and not harassed by someone intoxicated.
“Are you here alone?” Clo asked without missing a beat. “You look a bit out of place. When’s the last time you came to a
club like this?”
Never. Not that she would admit that. It wasn’t a place someone like her was supposed to go. It was why she allowed
herself to have a single glass of wine, the alcohol helping her nerves. Because Clover was right, she was out of place. She
didn’t belong amongst the free-spirited crowd.
She’d heard of Nightshade, a relatively new nightclub over in the Breed side of the city. It was an interesting experience,
the music loud enough to vibrate the floor beneath her feet, and the drinks just strong enough to help her relax. Bodies covered
in a thin layer of sweat glistened beneath the flashing lights just to her right, the crowd dancing to the unintelligible lyrics
blasting through the speakers.
It was a ridiculous venue to meet an important client, not that she was complaining. Many of her meetings were usually held
in uninteresting places like offices, or even on the grounds of her family estate. Never somewhere as exciting as a nightclub.
It was why she was over an hour early, because despite not enjoying crowds, she revelled in the difference compared to
her normal day-to-day life. It was the illusion of being anyone but herself. Someone who didn’t have such strict rules in the
way she acted, or the way she dressed. She could be anyone she wanted to be, at least for the next hour.
“So, no friends?” Clover prompted, clearly not reading the ‘leave me alone’ vibes.
“Not today.” Not that she had any. Friends were complicated. Friends could be hurt. “I’m just here for my meeting.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, there’s a guy over there who keeps looking at you,” Clover mock-whispered, a giggle
slipping past her lips. “Tall, dark, and dangerously hot.”
Harper turned in the same direction, not first noticing the man perched at the end of the bar, his arm raised towards the
bartender. “I’m sure he’s not,” she said, strangling the usual sense of dread crawling along her spine at the possible attention.
“Oh, he is babe. Trust me.” Clover nudged her a step closer, and only then did the man turn fully, caramel eyes welcoming
as they swept down her slow enough that warmth spread through her veins. Except in a split second, his demeanour changed,
his dark brows drawing together in a frown before he returned his attention to the bar.
 Heat burned her face, embarrassment at the awkward dismissal. Turning her back, she grasped her glass harder.
“He’s looking again,” Clover continued, glancing over Harper’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t know him?”
“I’m pretty sure.” She would’ve definitely remembered his face, his eyes bright, framed with envious dark lashes. Not to
mention the high cheekbones and an angled jaw covered in the lightest stubble.
The wine tasted like dirt as she swallowed the rest of her drink, tinged with disappointment.
“He’s looking again.” Clover nibbled her bottom lip, slightly swaying on her feet. “Maybe he’s for your meeting?”
“That’s not…” The realisation hit her. She knew that wasn’t Mr Beckett, having researched him thoroughly before the
meeting. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t sent a representative to find her. “Maybe he’s early, it could be—”
Her words drowned out against a much deeper voice.
“Hi there.”
Harper released her iron grip on the empty glass, staring up at the tall, dark, and definitely hot man. “Hi,” she managed to
squeak before recovering. “I’m sorry. Are you the representative for Mr Beckett?”
He smiled, the movement brightening his face and highlighting the single dimple in his right cheek. “I’ll be anyone you want
me to be, Darling.”
Oh my.
“She has no friends!” Clover shouted drunkenly over her shoulder. “Maybe you could be her friend?”
“No friends? We’ll have to change that.” His smile turned into an amused smirk. “So, do I get a name?”
“I assume you’re not from Mr Beckett,” Harper replied instead, regaining just some of her composure.
The man brushed through his already tousled hair, the onyx strands just long enough to start to curl. “No, but there’s no need
to make me jealous. I can assure you I’m better than anyone named Beckett.”
Harper stifled a laugh, unable to stop herself. He held himself with such confidence, his smile a magnetism that drew her
closer, like a moth to a flame. His t-shirt was black, short-sleeved, except on his right arm, which was torn at the shoulder.
Dark lines decorated every inch of his delicious tawny brown skin, intricate patterns that spread to the tips of his fingers.
“So, how can I help you, not Beckett?”
Everything about him was very different to what she was used to. From his casualness, to the way he watched her with
quiet amusement, his eyes never leaving hers.
“It’s Sythe,” he said, his voice warming her skin.
“I don’t remember asking for your name.”
He shrugged, just a nonchalant roll of his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to be moaning the wrong guy’s name later. Bad for
the ego.”
Something hot and dangerous coiled low in her stomach, his confidence alone making her want to clench her thighs together
in anticipation. “You think you have that ability?” she asked, surprised at her own response.
She was not the sort of woman to encourage such behaviour. It wasn’t like she had much experience with sex or intimacy.
His smile grew, as if he could read her inner turmoil. “Only way to find out is by taking the free trial.”
He stepped closer, and Harper swore the air surrounding them ignited. Everything around them blurred, the lights and
sounds dimming to a gentle roar as every nerve ending concentrating on the gorgeous man standing before her. She couldn’t
even hear Clover having a full conversation with herself behind, or the music that she could feel vibrating the floor beneath her
feet.
“Free trial?” She tipped her head back to better meet his hungry look. She’d had men look at her like that before, their
lecherous gazes usually making her feel sick with their intentions.
But with him, it was different. Butterflies.
She’d never once reacted so viscerally to someone.
“Trial period,” he said, voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “Where you have unrestricted reign over my body. No strings
attached.” A dark strand of hair fell over his left eye, and when he went to push it back, his upper lip curved.
“A try before you buy.”
“Exactly.” Sythe laughed, the bloody dimple in his cheek deepening. So boyish that she couldn’t help but smile.
Since when did she find dimples sexy?
When did she find anyone sexy?
This was out of her comfort zone. But then again, she was alone, a nobody in a crowd of strangers with no security looking
over her shoulder. There were no expectations on how she should behave.
So how should she behave?
“Lots of thinking going on in that pretty head of yours,” he said, the air stretching taut between them. “A world-shattering
orgasm, or a lonely drink at the bar. What do you have to lose?”
Everything, she thought. Except that wasn’t true, because she couldn’t lose everything if she didn’t have anything to begin
with.
Harper licked along her bottom lip, his caramel eyes dropping to trace the movement as if he wanted to be the one to taste.
She’d changed her mind. She’d never had a man look at her like that before.
“World shattering?” she repeated, not knowing where her sudden confidence came from. Her experience with sex had
never been about pleasure or intimacy.
There were so many reasons why she should say no. That she should politely decline and wait for Mr Beckett like she’d
planned.
His smile was pure temptation, and those annoying butterflies fluttered.
Sythe dipped his head, moving slow enough for her to pull away, to change her mind. Her lips parted on their own accord,
her face burning with how little experience she had. His expression was anything but serious, his irises swallowed by his
pupils as desire etched hard lines into his handsome face.
He didn’t seem to notice her inexperience, his lips soft at the first brush. “Say yes,” he whispered, teasing her with another
gentle kiss.
A choice, and for once, she had complete control over her own body.
Her pulse threatened to break free of her skin. “Y… yes.”
He captured her lips once more, the pressure rougher, more desperate, with his tongue sweeping in to taste. He was
ruthless against her senses, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin cotton of her dress as he placed his palm on her hip
and dragged her flush against him. Except it wasn’t enough, the sudden need spearing through, urging her to take it further,
faster, before she could overthink her actions.
He lifted her until she perched on the edge of the bar, putting her closer to his height.
Holy Light.
He gave a frustrated growl, having to bend to capture her lips once more when her dress didn’t stretch enough for him to
step so easily between her knees. She would have laughed if she wasn’t going to combust into flames, her body aching to be
touched by someone who desired her, and not her name.
His breath tickled the shell of her ear, his fingers teasing the hem of her skirt. “I can either make you moan here, where
everyone can see. Or we can go somewhere more private. What will it be, darling?”
A slice of panic, one she doused quickly.
The opportunity to hide from her responsibilities didn’t come often.
He paused, body coiled with anticipation, as he waited for her decision. Making sure his eyes remained on her, she led
them both towards the bathrooms, moving inside the women’s seconds before he followed her. It was a small bathroom, with
only three stalls and a single sink, all in a clinical white. The tiles, floor, ceiling, and even the lightbulbs were all the same
startling shade, a contrast to his absorbing darkness.
Everything about him was dark. His clothes. His hair. His tattoos. Everything but his eyes, which watched her like a lion
would his prey. He was dangerous, even if he wore such a tempting smile, and she’d never been so turned on, her thighs slick
with need despite him barely touching her.
She may be inexperienced, but her body knew what to do.
“Last chance,” he said, giving her an out.
She thought about it for a split-second, the panic surging for a single heartbeat. She wasn’t someone who had sex with a
stranger only minutes after meeting them, and definitely not in public where anyone could walk in. She wasn’t someone who
really had sex. Period.
The butterflies fought against the nerves clawing beneath her skin. “I thought you said you could make me moan?”
She’d barely gotten the words out before he had his hand wrapped in her hair, pinning her head at the perfect angle for his
lips. She swallowed her cry, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of any sounds. She wanted him to work for it, to force it
from her throat.
His groan vibrated against her, tongue teasing as he stepped her backwards. The stall door slammed loudly with how rough
they’d moved. It rebounded back, but Sythe caught it before it could hit her.
“Fuck,” he growled, struggling with the small space. “You’re driving me crazy, darling.” He managed to manoeuvre them
both inside, closing the door and slipping the flimsy lock into place.
Tossing her bag on top of the toilet’s tank, she pulled him back with his shirt, savouring his sweet and spicy taste, while his
hand moved up to her throat, fingers encircling with just the slightest pressure.
He rotated them, pushing her back against the locked door while pressing his hips heavily against hers, and this time, she
couldn’t contain her moan. Not when he felt so hot and heavy beneath his jeans. She wanted to rub herself against it, draw
pleasure from this man until he was as insatiable as she seemed to be.
He gently pulled her dress to her hips before she felt his fingers unapologetically between her thighs.
“Fucking soaking,” he rumbled, rubbing against her embarrassingly wet underwear. A single finger slipped beneath the
fabric, stroking her, circling her clit before thrusting inside. Harper whimpered, long unused muscles clenching as he started a
gentle rhythm. “And it’s all for me.”
“Please,” she begged, already feeling the beginning of an orgasm building, far faster than she’d ever experienced alone.
She needed it to be quick, a simple coupling between two people who didn’t know or care about one another.
“Hmmm, my name isn’t ‘please.’” A chuckle as he pulled out, leaving her empty and aching. “Try again.”
Harper glared, unable to look away as he lifted that single finger to his lips and sucked her juices from it. She would have
sworn his eyes changed, the caramel shifting to a strange metallic shade, but before she could give any weight to the thought,
Sythe spun her, pulling her back with him as he sat. Stretching his long legs forward, he shifted her so her back pressed against
his torso, his lips trailing over her shoulder. Hands splayed on her bare legs, spreading her open as far as she could go in the
tight space with her dress bunched around her waist.
She felt how big he was beneath her. “Well, are you going to do it?” she demanded, not sure how to take it further, only that
she needed him inside her. “Or are you just all talk?”
“Not until you moan my name.” His right hand stroked up the inside of her thigh, tugging the side of her underwear before it
caught between them. With a barely compressed grunt, he tore the fabric, exposing her to the air. “Fucking beautiful.”
He moved to press his spare palm against the front of her throat, fingers constricting just enough for her to feel it, but not to
obstruct her breathing.
“Keep them spread for me, darling.”
Harper tried to widen her legs further, but there was nowhere for her to go.
His hand was rough against her skin, moving straight back to where she needed. There was no teasing, his fingers touching
her as if he’d done it thousands of times before. Letting out a cry, he thrust a single finger inside, thumb gently rubbing across
her clit before adding a second, stretching her with each confident stroke.
She allowed herself to get lost in the moment, hoping that he lived up to his promise. Gripping his arms, her nails bit into
his skin as she rode his hand, chasing after her release like it was the last she’d ever have.
She didn’t care that they were technically in public, or that people could hear. All she cared about was how she was
soaking his lap, her breathing coming in soft moans and undignified pants as he twisted his fingers to rub a spot inside that got
her on fire.
“Please!” she cried, unable to think straight as he groaned beneath her, everything about him pushing her towards the edge
far faster than she’d be able to do herself.
Harper cried out, throwing her head back as much as she could in his grip, his name on the tip of her tongue. “Sy—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he purred into her ear, hand now pressed tightly against her lips. “Only I get to hear your moans.”
Her pussy convulsed around his fingers at the possessiveness of his words, the orgasm hitting her like a tidal wave,
stealing her breath from the weight of pleasure seizing her muscles. Sythe continued to stroke her through the ripples. When she
realised she’d not only moaned, she’d screamed beneath his hand, did she pull his arm away, twisting in his lap to attack the
fastening of his jeans.
Sythe seemed to be just as desperate, his hands a blur as he fought the zipper to release himself, the tip already glistening
with how much he wanted her. She reached for it, but he caught her wrist.
“You can worship my cock later,” he growled, them both a tangle of limbs as she manoeuvred in the tight space to hover
above him. Sythe gripped the base, giving himself a single pump before placing the head at her entrance.
A gentle vibration, one she would’ve ignored if her phone hadn’t fallen from her bag, the screen brightening with Mr
Beckett’s name over Sythe’s shoulder.
“Wait!”
“Wait?” Sythe gripped himself harder, his face twisting with pain.
Harper reached for her phone, her pussy touching the tip of his cock. Sythe groaned, his body as solid as a statue beneath
her.
“Oh, no!” She scrambled back, quickly pulling her dress back down to below her knees. She ignored the fact she was bare,
her underwear nowhere to be seen. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
Sythe remained where he was, jaw slack with his hand wrapped around his painfully hard member. “Fuck, are you serious
right now?”
Harper pulled him forward for a kiss, nipping at his bottom lip. “Thank you,” she whispered against him before she
reached for the latch, squeezing herself through a tiny gap and all but running back towards the bar.
 Chapter 2

Sythe

S
ythe was very rarely surprised. More than surprised, actually, absolutely fucking flabbergasted. Mysterious girl was one
of the hottest things he’d ever seen, uncomfortably standing at the bar with her shoulders so tight he’d thought she’d snap.
She looked so innocent, nothing like the women he usually picked up at the bar. Corruptible.
He’d devoured her curves with his eyes, her body soft and oh so fucking biteable, before she’d turned and met his gaze.
Fuck.
His beast had had a damn near heart attack. Full on cardiac arrest. Clearly, he had good taste too, because the urge to fuck
her tripled to the point he had to stop himself from storming over there like a barbarian and throwing her over his shoulder.
There was a second of panic, a flash of recognition, quickly purged by the sheer force with which he wanted her. He wasn’t
sure what happened with his reaction, having never met mystery girl before, he was sure of it. His beast would’ve known,
fascinated with the unique white strips in the brunette of her hair. He couldn’t help himself, watching her skin blush at his
words, his confidence and charm something that never failed him.
He had a one hundred percent success rate, except clearly tonight.
What the actual fuck.
The entire situation soured his mood, the taste of his whiskey bland when he sat back down in the private section of the
club, roped off with a few round tables and leather armchairs. They’d hired the space alone, but three women had joined his
brothers while he’d been busy, all surrounding Lucifer who was sucking in the attention before he turned to Sythe.
“Don’t say it,” Sythe groaned, already knowing exactly what the Daemon was thinking.
“What happened, Sy?” Lucifer chuckled, lounging back as one of the girls, with eyes a little too glassy, sat on his knee,
kissing along his jaw. “Couldn’t get it up?” The other two stood behind him, happy to just stroke over his broad shoulders and
chest, fingers sinking beneath the rips in his t-shirt.
Xander grumbled a laugh, arms crossed as he warily watched the dancers at the edge of the rope. “Wasn’t it you who
couldn’t get it up, Luce?”
Lucifer’s smile dropped. “That was one fucking time, Xee. And she used teeth!”
A couple of feminine giggles, Lucifer returning his attention to the women while flipping Xander the finger.
Sythe sank lower in his chair, resting his head back and closing his eyes. Mysterious girl had fucked with his ritual. He
always went out to get drunk with his brothers, find a woman, and fuck her before he went dark. It didn’t matter whether he
fucked them alone, in a dingy bathroom, or if he shared with Jax when the bastard was in the mood. He had to fuck someone
like some weird bloody superstition, because he wasn’t sure when he’d next get the chance.
It was his final farewell to himself before he went undercover and became someone else.
And she’d ruined it.
“You want to find someone else?” Jax asked, reading the situation like Sythe had a neon sign above his head stating ‘blue
balls.’ “Or do you want to ditch early for poker with the others?”
No. He wanted his mystery girl. A woman who’d melted beneath him, her stiffness fading as she whimpered and clenched
around his fingers. His name on her lips had been fucking euphoric, and for once he didn’t even care that her nails had dug into
his right arm. The pain was there, as it always was when anything touched his bare skin, but he didn’t care, lost in the moment.
Lost in her.
Sythe opened his eyes to slits, frustration making him feel heavy. “I think—”
A hand touched his knee, stroking up before he caught it. He held the woman far gentler than he should for someone
touching him without permission. She was pretty, blonde rather than brunette like his mystery girl, with lips made to be fucked.
And yet, his dick didn’t even twitch.
Fuck the Fates.
“No touching,” he said, releasing her.
 Lucifer moved his leg, forcing the woman who sat on him to stand. “Thank you for the company, ladies, but I think it’s time
for you to go back to the party.” He gestured towards the rope.
The woman pouted, reaching over to place her palm over Lucifer’s peck, her movements sluggish. “I thought… I thought
you were gonna show me what a real man was?” she slurred.
Sythe choked on the remainder of his drink, both Xander and Jax smirking.
“Tempting,” Lucy said, gently persuading her to leave. “Next time, love. I think maybe you should go drink some water,
sober up a little.”
Reaching over, Sythe lifted the rope to allow her to pass, her expression like thunder as she re-joined her friends.
“Smooth,” Xander muttered.
Jax shook his head. “Real man?”
“Fuck off.” Lucifer wiped a hand down his thigh. “She’s drunk. You can’t trust what she says.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sythe said, grinning. “That’s what they all say.”
Lucifer glowered, flexing his fingers against the leather of the armchair. He’d been working with Kace, adding more glyph
tattoos to his growing collection and testing his arcane. They hadn’t been sure how his body would handle the strain since he
was without a beast, normal druids unable to control the enchantments. But Lucifer seemed to be able to accept the glyphs
without ill-effect. Which wasn’t entirely a surprise, considering he was no longer a normal druid, his chi expanded when he’d
taken the Rite.
“Riley still isn’t sold on you going dark,” Xander commented, his pale eyes piercing. “You sure you want to leave right
now?”
Sythe gripped the glass hard enough it cracked, the minute fracture spiderwebbing before he set it gently down. “I’m not
throwing all my planning and work away, Xee. You all know how important this is.”
Months he’d been working on the profile he needed to infiltrate the Beauchamps. If he dropped it all now, everything he’d
done would be for nothing. And that wasn’t an option.
“Why the fuck would someone willingly allow themselves to be possessed? To become a puppet?”
“Sy’s right,” Jax agreed calmly. “Why would the Church of the Light agree to be a conduit for a Daemon when it goes
against everything they preach?”
“I don’t give a shit about the church,” Sythe growled. “They’re clearly just stupid pawns in a bigger game.”
“Daemons haven’t been free from the chains that tethered them to the Nether for long,” Lucifer added. “It takes time to
establish an alliance, and for Gideon to build his own army.”
“Ah yes, the Undead,” Xander said, lips pressing into a thin line. “Just another pain in our arses.”
“So what better chance than for me to infiltrate the church? To figure out what role they play and to put a stop to it.” Sythe
stood, too much energy as he clenched his fists. “Gideon’s the king, take him out, and the playing board falls.”
“You’ll have to get through Bishop,” Lucy said, head cocked. “He’s the one who controls the Unhallowed, and he’s
Gideon’s bitch.”
Sythe grinned, the smile not friendly. “What do you think I do for a living, Batboy?”
Lucifer clicked his tongue. “Your confidence is going to get you killed.”
“We’ve been telling him that for years,” Xander muttered.
Sythe shook his head. “This place is giving me a headache.” The anxiety of his departure grew. It happened every time he
left, the panic of not being able to contact his brothers until his job was done. “So who’s playing poker? Is Ti—”
“No.” Jax drained the rest of his drink. “Everyone but Titus.”
The information wasn’t a surprise, but Sythe still swallowed the lump forming in his throat. It was just another reason for
going dark, revenge for his brother, who was recently tortured.
“You need to give him time,” Lucifer said, sitting forward. “The Rite isn’t something so easily recovered, and he’s yet to
accept the power as his own.”
“He hasn’t left his room for weeks—” Jax began.
Lucifer barked out a laugh. “He’s just had a ton of black magic forced through his chi, if he wants to hide in his room for a
few weeks, then let him. He’s strong, he won’t fall.” Except Lucifer’s smile was forced, hiding the strain they all felt.
Titus was strong, but that didn’t mean they weren’t worried about him. He didn’t think Axel would be going, knowing he
preferred to stay close to his cousin as much as possible. Guilt, Sythe suspected, although Axel had nothing to feel guilty about.
It was a risk of their jobs, death, and now, thanks to what happened to Titus, rituals that forced you to transition into the
very things they were trained to kill. Sythe was going to take deep pleasure in separating the head of the Daemons who hurt his
brother, and every person who sold their soul to the Undead.
He just had to be patient.
 Chapter 3

Harper

“N o.”
Harper sat frozen, the back room Mr Beckett had hired uncomfortably small with only a thin wall separating them
from the main club. “No?” she repeated, raising her voice over the music. She swung her gaze to the first guard, and
then to the second, before settling back on Mr Beckett. The guards were unnecessarily large, their muscles dramatically bulging
to the point they couldn’t actually cross their arms. They would likely be scary if she hadn’t grown up surrounded by people
who were far more terrifying in business suits and dress shoes.
“I’m sure you’re not used to being told this, Miss Beauchamp, but the answer is no. I’ve changed my mind.” He smirked,
reminding her of a wolf about to devour a sheep.
Harper dug her nails into her palms, hidden beneath the table. “This wasn’t a negotiation, Mr Beckett. You agreed to meet
with me to finalise the details of the sale.”
“I agreed to meet with Angel, not you.” He lounged back in his chair, his clothes expensive and perfectly tailored. Even his
security were well dressed, their white shirts pressed to perfection, despite the fabric straining at their biceps. She wasn’t sure
why he thought he’d need not one, but two ‘I can kill you with my bare hands’ guards. Not to mention choosing a highly public
place for a meeting. Out of character from a man who supposedly preferred privacy.
A small closet-style room with a table and a few chairs at the back of a club was not private.
Harper made sure her smile was friendly, noticing how his own strained slightly.
“My uncle is expecting the painting, so what can we do to make sure we both leave happy this evening?” she asked,
keeping herself as professional as possible despite the weight on her chest. She couldn’t fail, not when she’d been working
towards complete confidence in her ability to serve the family. She didn’t need to give her uncle something else to use against
her.
“I don’t trust a man who went back on his word. I was supposed to be meeting with him, not you.”
“I can assure you that I’m more than qualified to deal with this, considering it’s my job to authenticate the piece.”
“Authenticate?” he snorted. “Are you insulting me?”
“It’s standard procedure to have someone authenticate such artwork—”
“You’re barely an adult, and you think you have the experience to authenticate such a piece? Not to mention the audacity to
accuse me of selling something that wasn’t real.”
Harper controlled her spike in temper. “We agreed one million for the single Nivo Pilkinson piece,” she continued, trying
to get the sale back on track. “Including the original gold frame. Half payment once the painting’s been validated, and the rest
once delivered.”
“I’ve told you, I’ve changed my mind. One million for the painting isn’t enough, not for a Nivo in his expressionism era.”
Harper swallowed the words she really wanted to say, knowing how fragile a millionaire’s ego usually was. “The highest
we’re willing to go is 1.5 million.” She was surprised with how relaxed her voice sounded, as if she was in control of a
situation that was clearly spiralling.
Mr Beckett leaned forward, his silver cufflinks clanking against the table between them when they hit the wood. “Tell
Angel to come back to me with a real offer, or I’ll sell it to someone else.” With a click of his fingers, he stood, the two guards
following him out like trained dogs.
Harper pursed her lips, the weight on her chest not lessening as she adjusted her skirt. Grabbing her bag, she made her way
out onto the main floor. The music was just as intolerable as before, the dancers doubling in size and moving in a sweaty
frenzy. She forced herself to walk straight, purposely not looking for the tall, handsome man with dark, messy hair.
He was a mistake.
An error in her judgement.
A bad luck charm, even if he was the single best sexual experience of her life.
 Harper finally made her way out into the open air, pausing when a car pulled up, the windows tinted.
“Evening Charles,” she said as the driver stepped out, opening the back passenger door with a simple nod.
Forcing a smile, Harper slipped inside the car, allowing him to close it softly behind her. Charles had been with the family
since she was a little girl. Almost twenty years, and she could count how many words he’d spoken to her on a single hand.
Frustration weighed heavy on her shoulders, threatening to break the mask she wore. She wondered if Charles would pull
the car over and comfort her if she cried? Or if, like everyone else, he’d simply pretend he’d seen nothing. Because that was
all she was, nothing, unless her uncle said otherwise.
But she couldn’t break, not yet. Not until she was alone, where no one could witness it. She’d worked too hard to be where
she was to give it all up before the final act.
A bump in the road, drawing her out of her own thoughts. Harper hadn’t even noticed passing through the tall iron gates
until she recognised the familiar lions perched at the entrance of the estate. They roared, magnificent beasts that were once her
family’s emblem, a sign of strength and courage, her father once said. Which was clearly a sick joke, considering what
remained of the family were neither of those things. An old family with more skeletons in their closet than most, the corruption
likely dating back hundreds of years, if not longer.
She was always told to be proud of her ancestry, but that same history was shadowed in death. Money had paved the way
to success. Until money wasn’t enough, and whoever went against the Beauchamps quickly figured out why they were one of
the oldest remaining names in Britain.
Harper didn’t wait for her door to be opened, ignoring Charles’s disapproving frown as she made her way up the marble
steps to the double doors.
“He’s waiting for you in his study,” one of the housekeepers whispered, walking past swiftly as if not to get caught. Harper
wasn’t sure what her name was, the staff inside the house always shifting and changing. Angel had gotten more insecure as he’d
aged, limiting those who had access to the estate. There were security stationed outside, but none inside, other than his
personal guard. Not like it mattered, the house was locked down tighter than a prison most days.
Checking to make sure she looked presentable in the mirror, Harper followed the sound of crackling flames and murmured
whispers until she found herself in front of Angel’s study.
“Let the Light cleanse your sins…”
Harper waited for her uncle, a man of barely sixty, who sat silently in his leather armchair, head bowed slightly forward,
with his eyes closed. The fireplace blazed behind him, the only source of light which threw shadows across his sharp features.
The Leader of the Church of the Light stood directly behind, blessing him with gentle caresses of a wet cloth and soothing
words that were lost against the crackle of the flames.
“Let the Light guide you,” she said, bowing her own head as Angel stood.
“And give sanctuary from the darkness,” Angel finished, allowing the blessed water to dribble down his face. His eyes
caught Harper’s from across the room, and she fought to clench her fists as she waited for the Leader to finish collecting her
items. She was young, much younger than any Leader before her. Early thirties would be Harper’s guess, with dark red hair and
a traditionally beautiful face.
Her gown was tied with an intricately twined rope, as pale as the rest of the fabric covering her body. “I hope to see you at
my service soon,” she said as she passed, her tone far gentler than expected from someone with so much power. Lorraine was
the voice of the Gods, and with that, the influence to guide, or even command those that followed the Light.
“My men will see you home safely,” Angel said, his voice deeper than it should be, damaged from years of smoking cigars
traced with god knows what.
“And the next donation?” Lorraine asked, looking back over her shoulder at him.
Angel’s sharp stare turned to her. “Do you not trust me, Lorraine? After everything I’ve done for you? For the cause?”
Lorraine bristled at the use of her name so casually, lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course,” she said, tone tense.
Angel took a step closer, the thick gold rings on both his hands glistening in the firelight. He’d gotten bigger as he’d aged,
more fat than muscle, but he was still intimidating at well over six feet.
Lorraine stiffened, but remained where she was as he approached. “My cleric like to be informed,” she said. “So we can
schedule events accordingly.”
His smile was forced. “Of course, my Leader. I apologise for my abruptness.” Raising his arm, he gestured towards the
door. “Please, safe journey home. My donation will be with you in the morning.”
Her nod was jerky. “For the Light.”
“For the Light,” he echoed, watching her leave the study before turning his attention to Harper. She could already tell he’d
been informed from the tightness of his shoulders, and the way he spun the ring on his middle finger, right hand. “Tell me,” he
demanded, returning to his armchair with the flames at his back.
Harper took the chair opposite, placing her hands gently on her knees in the proper way she’d been taught as a child. “He
didn’t bring the piece, so I couldn’t authenticate it. He was upset you didn’t attend the meeting.”
Angel cocked his head. “How much did you go to?”
 “1.5 million.”
“That fucking cunt,” he seethed, smacking his palms against the leather armrest. “The work’s not worth that much, not when
I have the rest of the collection and he knows it.”
He pinned her with his eyes, the blue crystal clear and something that ran in their lineage. Everyone except for her. No, hers
were grey. Lifeless, as he’d told her on numerous occasions. The only Beauchamp child to be born without blue.
“He asked for a real offer, or he’ll sell it to someone else.”
Angel’s laugh was a dark bark, the sound echoing around the room. “He doesn’t trust me,” he concluded, the chair scraping
as he returned to his feet. “Which was why I sent your pretty face, rather than going myself. You very rarely fail to get the job
done.”
Harper stilled, sensing the underlying threat. “He’d brought two men with him, guards.”
Angel’s upper lip curled. “Of course he did, fucking coward.” A grunt. “I want that painting, Harp. It’s important, otherwise
the collection won’t be worth my time or investment. I already had another buyer scheduled after the showing, tripling what we
paid.”
“What did you want me to do?” she asked. “He’s not—”
Angel’s hand snaked out, gripping her jaw in a bruising grip. He never actually left bruises on her face, no, only below her
neckline. “I don’t care what you have to do. Threaten him. Kill him.”
Harper tried to pull back, but Angel only tightened his hold, leaning forward until his breath feathered across her face.
“You will secure me that painting, no matter what.” He shoved her head, her neck snapping to the side, almost like she’d
been slapped. “Sometimes I wonder why I promised my brother I’d take care of you, especially when you disappoint me like
this.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not daring to move and risk him striking out again. “Give me time. I’ll figure it out.”
Fingers brushing along her collarbone before dipping down the back of her dress, seeking the skin between her shoulder
blades. She controlled her flinch as he traced the scar he’d given her. “You know I love you, right?”
Harper swallowed the bile, proud her voice remained strong. “Yes, uncle.”
“You’re like the daughter I never had. But you have to understand, there’s an expectation in being part of this family.”
Like you let me forget.
“I know,” she said. “I won’t fail you.”
“Of course you won’t,” he whispered, finally pulling back. “Tell me why you won’t fail me, Harper?”
A tear dripped down her cheek, and that single show of weakness infuriated her. “Because I’m a Beauchamp.”
“Because you’re a Beauchamp.” The words bounced around the room, echoing back at her. “Now tell me, what happened
the last time you tried to run from your responsibilities?”
Harper remained silent, anger growing tight in her stomach, followed quickly with a numbness in her fingertips.
No, no, no. Not now. Not here!
“The Gods gave you to us for a reason, the first girl in several generations.” He gently wiped the tear from her cheek.
“Your purity and beauty’s a blessing to the family. A gift from the Gods themselves, but let us not pretend you cannot be
corrupted by the sins of man.”
Harper blinked, fear spearing through her centre.
What if she’d been followed?
“Nothing could have helped me with Mr Beckett,” she said, proud her voice didn’t break. “He had no intentions to sell to
us.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He dismissed her with a wave, and she relaxed a fraction. “Don’t disappoint me, Harper. Now go,
Let the Light guide you.”
She dipped her head, rushing up the stairs towards her bedroom. The numbness had grown, Harper now unable to feel up to
her elbow on her left arm.
“Shit!” she cursed, fumbling with the handle of her door. Managing to pull it open with her right hand, she quickly closed it
behind just as her legs weakened, and she collapsed to her knees.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, finding herself on the floor, face pressed against the hard wood. She could no
longer feel her legs, nor the tears she was sure burned down her cheeks.
Stress. That must be it, the reason for her sudden flare up. The fingers on her right tingled, but she was sure they’d go numb,
too, even if it lasted a few seconds. The episode would pass, just like they always did.
Sometimes she had a warning before a collapse, normally with the numbness or tingling. Other times, there was no warning
at all.
Managing to roll herself onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, finally able to feel her toes. She wanted to scream, to
release all her anger, resentment, and fear. But instead she choked it down, knowing she had no choice but to pretend that she
wasn’t absolutely terrified.
‘What happened the last time you tried to run from your responsibilities?’
 She wasn’t sure what had made her decide to run one morning, knowing there was no place on earth that was safe. She’d
been caught within days, dragged back home like the disobedient child she was. She expected physical punishment for
embarrassing the family, was prepared for it. What she didn’t expect was rather than being beaten, her uncle had taken her back
to the place where she’d sought haven. The home of a friend from boarding school.
Harper witnessed her friend and his parents be beaten, and then watched as they burned alive inside the same home that had
protected her.
He’d forced her eyes open as the house was engulfed in flames, using those same flames to heat the branding iron. He’d
scarred her permanently, a reminder that she belonged to him. Belonged to the family, and to the church.
He’d sent her away that very same night to be disciplined. Trained on how to appropriately behave, with the smell of
burning flesh still fresh in her mind.
Over ten years, she’d followed every order.
Over ten years, she’d behaved.
Over ten years, she’d waited.
 Chapter 4

Sythe

E
ight fucking weeks Sythe had had to sit and listen to the same sixteen men whine about their childhoods. Blaming
everything from absent fathers, being told they weren’t good enough, to finding the colour yellow too offensive for the
reason they were aggressive arseholes.
Everyone was there as part of their mandatory rehabilitation, with at least half out on parole. The rest had chosen to cut
their custodial sentence if they attended the anger management course. Sythe would’ve been charged with ABH and hoped the
judge sent him to the same class. Unless, of course, you had a computer nerd as a brother. Which he did, even if Titus barely
left his room. One fake conviction later, Sythe was sitting in a circle telling everyone his feelings.
“It was a Persian called Fluffy…”
Sythe drowned out Dwayne’s voice as he droned on, yet again, about how his mother never let him have a pet growing up.
As if that was reason enough for why he punched a random guy in a bar.
“Fucking loser,” he muttered beneath his breath, causing Wyatt to snigger beside him.
Everything Sythe did was meticulously thought out, from every word that left his lips, to the way he presented himself. A
character built specifically for his target. It had taken eight weeks of bullshit to learn what he could about Wyatt Beauchamp.
An impulsive man child who lived for attention, whether it was positive or negative. He pushed boundaries and wanted
someone to validate and encourage his actions. Sythe happily slipped into that position.
Sythe turned his head, knowing it would get him scolded for disrespecting the speaker. “You get the stuff to celebrate the
end of this shit show?”
“Of course I fucking did,” Wyatt whispered back, smirking when the counsellor glared in their direction.
“It better be bloody good, rich boy,” Sythe said, winking at the counsellor when she didn’t look away. She blushed, more
anger than anything else, but she finally returned her attention to Dwayne and his harrowing tale of deprived pet ownership.
“It’s the only reason I even talk to you.”
Wyatt fidgeted with his silver lighter, flipping the lid open, and then closed. “Fuck off, we both know the only reason you
talk to me is because I’m the only other fucking human in this place.”
And there it was, the atmosphere in the room thickening with violence as everyone turned to look at them. Only half the
group was actually Breed, but Wyatt didn’t give a shit who he offended.
Textbook privileged kid with attention issues.
“That’s enough,” the counsellor said, standing up from her seat opposite. “Mr Black, if you carry on, you’ll fail the course
and you’ll have to go back before the judge.”
Wyatt chuckled, knowing she’d never call him out in front of everyone.
Sythe shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Apologies, beautiful,” he said with zero sincerity,
which caused the counsellor to purse her lips.
“Mr Black,” she said, over enunciating the ‘ck’ in his fake name. “Why don’t you share with us what you’ve learnt in the
last eight weeks?”
“What I’ve learnt?” Sythe cracked his knuckles, much to Wyatt’s amusement. “I’ve learnt not to be fucking caught.”

Beer tasted like piss. It didn’t matter that the bottle he was drinking was brewed by monks in the mountains of Scotland and had
a pretentious label. It tasted like piss. But that didn’t matter, because it was what Wyatt was drinking.
“I told you this place was worth it,” Wyatt chuckled, the pool beside them full of young, half-naked people. “What better
way to celebrate our freedom than to crash a house party?”
 Sythe took another sip of his beer. “Crash? I thought you said you knew the host?”
“Of course I know him,” Wyatt muttered, pulling out a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “I know everyone there is to
know. I needed to pay Sailor a little visit, and he just happened to be throwing a party.”
“A visit?” Sythe asked, raising a brow. “Is that why I’m here? You need my pretty face as backup?”
“Pretty?” Wyatt smirked, dipping his finger into the powder to rub along his gums. “Trust me, I don’t need anyone. I can do
whatever I want because no one has the fucking guts to stop me.”
Sythe cocked his head. “So we’ve crashed a party, and now we’re going to sit and wait for the guy to come to us? Fuck
man, that’s some power play.”
Wyatt’s grin widened. “See, you just get me,” he said, excitement brightening his voice.
Of course I do, Sythe thought, matching his enthusiasm. “Can’t believe I’ve only known you for eight weeks. Feels like
fucking years.” Eight weeks of sitting in those fucking meetings. Eight weeks of turning up at the same bars or clubs and
accidentally running into one another. Eight weeks of coincidences.
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Wyatt continued with a chuckle, holding out a spoon to Sythe. “Thank the Light you
were at that fucking course. When you punched that shifter in the face without hesitation, I just knew we’d be friends.”
Sythe accepted the little snuff spoon, inhaling the powder at the end. “Fucking furry shouldn’t have looked at me.”
It had taken Sythe seconds to read the room; the hostility coming off Wyatt palpable. It hadn’t taken a genius to guess it was
aimed at the shifter who’d sat beside him. It was the first session, and Sythe had done everything he could to end it with a
fistfight.
The aim had been to get noticed, and in the second session, Wyatt had moved to sit beside him.
“You’re right, rich boy. This shit’s good.” Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, the instantaneous rush bristling his
beast. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken cocaine, and the drug was relatively tame compared to brimstone, which was more
popular amongst Breed. But it wasn’t something he took casually, not wanting anything in his system that could jeopardise his
ability to think or fight.
Despite what he’d said, the stuff was weak as shit. But still he waited, making sure his irises were normal before returning
to the conversation.
“Better than the stuff you gave me the other week.” Wyatt sniffed the powder this time, rubbing at his nose.
“I’m sorry we don’t all have trust funds,” Sythe joked. “Next time I won’t share.”
A lie, considering it was all in the plan. Drugs were an easy way to make Wyatt relaxed in his presence. A friend with
common hobbies and interests, and not someone who planned to destroy his legacy.
Wyatt sniggered, relaxing back in his wicker chair as the party continued around them. The pool was full of twenty or so
barely clothed people, with a few balloons being passed around the excited crowd, as well as some metal canisters. Another
twenty or so people danced at the edges, some sitting with their legs in the water or smoking in the chairs provided. A DJ was
set up beneath a gazebo towards the back, the music more electric than pop.
A woman pulled herself from the pool, her bikini barely covering her fake breasts. She immediately made her way through
the dancers, pausing when she spotted Wyatt. “Hey, where’s George?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him around in a while, and
he’s not returning my calls.”
“Fuck George, that pussy’s decided he can’t handle the heat.” Wyatt’s smile strained. “What do you want, Sasha? I didn’t
think you were still fucking him?”
Sythe forced his body to relax, knowing George was currently in pieces along the riverbed of the Thames. Jax had already
tied up any loose ends, including leaving a message to Wyatt explaining he was skipping town.
“It was only casual.” Sasha flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “So you going to share? Or you keeping that
powder to yourself?” A gold chain wrapped around her waist, a large diamond sitting just below her belly button. Rich. Just
like everyone else in attendance. Socialites living off their daddy’s money.
Wyatt leaned back, patting his thighs.
With a giggle, she draped herself over his lap. He didn’t seem to care that she was wet, burying his face in her neck to
nibble along her skin. She grabbed for the bag, scooping the powder up with one of her fake long nails. Turning to Sythe, she
met his eyes before snorting.
“Who’s your friend?” she purred, tongue flicking out to lick along her bottom lip. “I haven’t seen him before. He’s cute.”
“This is Sythe, baby. Do you have any friends to keep him company?” Wyatt winked at him while wrapping his arms
around her waist.
“They have to be as pretty as you,” Sythe said with a flirtatious smile. She melted at his words, but Sythe felt nothing as her
eyes travelled down his body with a feral heat to land between his legs. Not a single fucking thing.
His cock should be stirring at the possibility of sex, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t fucked women under a guise before. He did
everything needed when he went dark. But all he could do was compare her to his mystery girl. Blonde hair rather than brunette
with a flick of white. Fake giant tits rather than a natural handful. Skinny rather than soft curves that would cushion his harder
lines.
 “You heard him, go get your friends.” Wyatt pushed her from his lap, slapping her bare arse with the flat of his palm. “Go.”
It made a thwack sound, loud enough even above the music.
“You’re such an arsehole,” she hissed, moving towards the bi-fold doors to the house with extra anger in her step.
Sythe waited until she was out of sight before shaking his head. “You really have a way with women.”
“She does this every time.” Wyatt shrugged, his movements over-exaggerated. “She’ll still suck my cock like a fucking
champ later.” Shaking the powder bag, he took another hit.
Sythe didn’t expect him to be so reckless, not when research had shown him to be ruthless when it came to being his
father’s messenger. But reckless was good. Reckless meant he’d invite a complete stranger out just because he punched a
shifter in the face, and then offer him drugs.
“So who’s the guy who fucked up enough that he needs a visit from you?” Sythe asked, ignoring the half-naked bodies in his
peripheral. Many seemed apprehensive, shooting them curious frowns the longer they lounged there. The ages seemed to range
from late teens to early thirties.
“Sailor Polton.” Wyatt placed down the bag, only to down the rest of his beer. “His father and mine do some dealings
together. We’re here because they took out a loan, and he’s missed a few payments.”
“Payments?” Sythe let out a whistle. “Nobody fucks with money.”
“Exactly.” Wyatt bounced in his seat, getting more and more excitable by the second. “No one fucks with money, and no one
messes with my father unless they want to deal with me.”
Sythe pushed for more information. It seemed Wyatt was a lot more loose lipped when he was high. “Yeah? So, what does
he do then?”
Wyatt blinked, the slight glaze in his eyes lessening. “A little of this and that. Why?”
Fuck. Sythe dipped his finger in the bag of cocaine as a distraction, needing to pull back from the conversation a little.
“Calm down, rich boy. I like to be informed before I beat the shit out of someone.” He rubbed the powder on his gums, the
numbing sensation unpleasant.
“Let’s just say my surname means something in my circles. There’s certain… expectations.”
“Expectations for Sailor, or for you?”
Wyatt’s smile was less enthusiastic, almost sober. “Come on, I’m bored of waiting. Let’s find shithead and then go to a real
party.”
Before Sythe could respond, Wyatt had already jumped to his feet, moving towards the house with purpose. The crowd
parted like water, not daring to get in his way as he entered the kitchen. Clearly, they knew who he was.
Wyatt paused at the threshold for the barest second before he hooked his arm around a guy’s neck. “Why hello, Sail. You
not think to come greet your guests?”
Splotches of red appeared on what must be Sailor’s cheeks, bringing out the tones in his strawberry hair. His pale green
eyes flicked between Sythe and the rest of the audience watching. “Wyatt… I… I was going to come see you but—”
“But what?” Wyatt didn’t loosen his hold, the inside of his elbow tight to Sailor’s throat. “I was feeling pretty friendly
today, but that was before you made me wait.” He released his grip, only to knot his fingers in the back of Sailor’s hair.
Shoving forward, he forced Sailor’s face to crash into the corner of the kitchen cabinet.
The crack reverberated, as did the screams that quickly followed. Sythe watched with his arms crossed, making sure no
one intervened as Sailor sagged to the floor, holding his bleeding face.
“What the fuck!” he cried, the words slightly muffled.
Wyatt knelt, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pay up what you owe before Friday,” he threatened. “That’s your only
warning.”
Sailor whimpered on the floor, but managed a nod.
“Right.” Wyatt straightened to his full height, placing a cigarette between his lips. “Ready to go?”
He fought against his lighter, a solid silver piece with small diamonds spelling out his initials. He flicked it open, and when
there was no flame, he snapped it closed.
“Fucking thing,” he muttered, trying to create a spark with no luck. “Anyone got a light?”
Not one person answered, all shrinking back when Wyatt turned to face them.
“I think you made a few people piss themselves, rich boy,” Sythe chuckled. “Let’s go before I get blood on my shoes.” He
leaned down to pat Sailor gently on the shoulder. “Good thing you’re rich, mate. Because you’re no longer pretty.”
Wyatt groaned when the lighter finally sparked, allowing him to take his first puff of nicotine. “May the Light burn you,
arsehole.”
No one stopped them as they walked through the house, not that Sythe expected any problems. Wyatt didn’t seem to have
many friends, likely because people were scared of his name. Or maybe it was his actions.
It was hours later before Sythe managed to get back to his newly rented flat, the place unpleasant, but expected with his
new background. It had a lockable door, a working kitchen, and a bathroom. That was all he needed, the open plan generous in
the fact it could fit a comfortable enough sofa and table.
 He’d slept in worse.
With a groan, he yanked his t-shirt free from his body, the cool air bliss against the ache in his right arm. No one, not even
his brothers, truly understood the discomfort he suffered at even the slightest touch against his skin. It was stupid, a phantom
pain that only existed in his head. It was why he usually wore clothes without sleeves, but that wasn’t an option when he
needed to cover his glyphs.
A vibration, his phone lighting up on the table.
Tonight was fucking great. I knew you were just like me.
I’ve got a booth at a specialised club booked Sat. You in?

Sythe stared at the words, anticipation electric in his blood.

Give me the details, and I’m there.

Eight fucking weeks, but it looked like he was finally making progress.
 Chapter 5

Sythe

I
t was official—his cock was broken. A beautiful woman was currently gyrating on his thigh, and he felt as aroused as a
nun. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Want to take this to a private room?” she whispered against his ear, her perfume a mixture of sweat and sweet florals.
“I offer all sorts of extras.”
“Buttercream’s the best,” Wyatt commented from beside them, his own dancer finished and currently counting her money.
“Aren’t you, babe?”
“Nah, I’m enjoying myself right here,” Sythe said. “Don’t you worry, darling.”
Her fake smile tightened. “It’s been a pleasure.” Nodding to the other girl, they both stepped out of the booth, the roped off
area raised to allow for a perfect view of the entire club. The main stage dominated the centre, with some seating around the
edges and tables scattered around the floor. Further against the walls, there were larger sofas more comfortable for personal
dances, each with privacy screens.
Strip clubs weren’t really his thing, but he’d never been to an invite-only strip club before. His phone had been removed at
the door, placed in a lockbox and kept secured behind the reception. The alcohol was complimentary, with servers walking
around offering champagne and even pills to clientele who were charged several hundred pounds per hour they stayed.
“This place is something else,” Sythe commented, reaching for his beer that was surrounded by various drugs. “How do I
get an invite?”
Wyatt chuckled, stretching his arms out along the top of the bench. “Another member has to nominate you, it’s the only way
in.”
Sythe’s brows raised. “Very exclusive.”
“It’s why it’s the best in the city.” Wyatt smirked, eyes scanning the small crowd on the main floor. “The girls are worth it.
They’re hand-picked and regularly screened to make sure they’re clean, if you know what I mean.”
“So you use the girls here often?”
Wyatt took a slow drink of his own beer. “Sometimes, if I’m in the mood. Like I said, Buttercream’s the best. You
should’ve taken her up on the offer.”
Sythe shook his head. “We both know I can’t afford to be here for a few seconds, never mind any of her extras.”
Wyatt snorted, but there was an intensity to his gaze. “Tell me, Sy, what’s your deal?”
Sythe took a sip of his drink. “My deal?”
“Yeah, like what do you do?” Wyatt sat pretty stiff for a guy that just had his cock publicly sucked.
“A little of this and that,” Sythe said, draining his drink. “I get by. Why?”
Wyatt sat forward, the earlier humour stripped clean. “You loyal to anyone?”
Sythe gave him a relaxed smile. “Does myself count?”
“You know what I mean.” Wyatt let out a sound of frustration. “You with the Irish? The Crows? You live in the Bricks, and
the majority of that is Viper territory.”
“The Vipers don’t own shit anymore.” His brother Kace had taken care of that. “Their territory’s been split amongst the
Lords, from what I’ve heard.”
Wyatt blinked, his pupils giving away his high. “What about those new guys, the Undead?”
“I don’t belong to anyone.” Sythe’s smiled strained. It seemed the Undead were finally making a name for themselves.
“Okay, it’s your turn.”
Wyatt slouched back, lips pursed. “What do you wanna know?”
“You seem pretty solitary for a guy with money.” Sythe made a show of grabbing one of the blue pills and throwing it in his
mouth.
“So?”
 “I just expected you to have an entourage, is all.” Wyatt used to be photographed partying with a large group regularly, but
over the years, they’d disappeared. The last had been the guy currently swimming with the fishes.
“I’ve found in my line of work, friends can fuck you over. Not many people can deal with what I do.”
“And what exactly do you do?”
Wyatt grinned, sitting forward. “Does it matter when I can afford this shit?” He reached for another of the pills, selecting a
white one. He swallowed it instantly, while Sythe kept his beneath his tongue. “I like to keep my immediate circle small.
Fewer… casualties that way.” He laughed, as if it were a joke. “I have some boys I party with, but they don’t mix with my
business. They’re not like me. Or you.”
“How so?” Sythe raised a single brow while casually lifting the bottle to his lips and discreetly spitting the blue pill into it.
He had no idea what it was, but mixing it with the cocaine he’d already consumed was a sure way to piss off his beast.
“We’re different in the way we see things, Sy. Like I said, not many people can deal with what I do.” Wyatt’s bloodshot
eyes flicked over Sythe’s shoulder. “Fuck.”
“Hey mate, you okay?” Sythe stood, turning to see what caught Wyatt’s attention. He followed his line of sight to an older
man making his way towards one of the VIP rooms. “Who’s that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Thick build, greying hair, and a meanly pinched face.
Angel Beauchamp.
Wyatt said nothing as he stepped out of their booth, his movements stiff. Sythe followed tightly behind, his reflexes stopping
him from colliding with Wyatt when he was forced to a halt.
“No entry,” a man sneered, his head freshly shaved close to his scalp. Sythe recognised him as Angel’s personal
bodyguard, Ivan Kozlov.
“Move out my fucking way,” Wyatt snarled back. “You know I’m supposed to be included in the meetings.”
Ivan widened his stance, face perfectly blank. “You weren’t invited,” he replied, his accent slight.
Sythe had done enough research to know who Mr Kozlov was, the only member of staff to have residence inside the
Beauchamp estate and Angel’s personal Guard.
Wyatt clenched his jaw. “Father!” he shouted, only to be quickly pinned against the wall. Sythe moved, almost breaking
Ivan’s wrist as he removed Wyatt from his grasp.
“Wanna try that with me, big boy?” Sythe said, his smile teasing. “I promise I’ll make it hurt real good.”
Ivan barely reacted, his anger only evident in the slight reddening of his face. “Stay here,” he commanded, turning his glare
to Wyatt. “Your father will be with you when he’s free.”
“Touch me again,” Wyatt threatened, “and you’re dead.” His fists clenched as if to stop himself from a fight. “Now get out
of my fucking way.” He shoved past Ivan, hand grasping the handle enough for the door to nudge open.
“The goods were less than promised, again. There seems to be a running theme amongst—”
Sythe knocked Ivan to the side, allowing Wyatt to scramble into the room. “Father!”
The man sat opposite Angel glared at the intrusion. “What’s this?” he snapped.
Angel’s expression was hard, his eyes sharp when they settled on his son. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Carefully standing from his seat, Angel adjusted his sleeves. He stepped towards his son, forcing him out of the room.
“You were supposed to call me,” Wyatt whispered angrily, the words pushed through clenched teeth. “You promised I’d be
included in—”
With a controlled movement, Angel’s hand snapped out, gripping Wyatt’s jaw tightly. “You’re high,” he said, his tone cold
enough to cause frostbite. “You’re an embarrassment coming here and acting entitled in front of our biggest buyer.”
“No, that’s not—”
With a disgusted sneer, Angel shoved Wyatt away. “You really think I’d trust such an important meeting with you? Look at
you, you’re a fucking disgrace.”
Wyatt stood there with colour along his cheekbones, his nostrils flaring.
“Call Charles and get fucking home.”
Wyatt unclenched his fists. “I can make my own way.”
“Then do it.” Angel’s ice-blue eyes settled on Sythe for the briefest second before he returned to the room, the door
slamming shut seconds later.
Ivan remained silent, moving to block the door with his body. Wyatt tensed, and Sythe prepared himself for a fight, but
instead, Wyatt turned on his heel and stormed towards the exit. Sythe followed him into the cool night air, the click of the
lighter the only sound as Wyatt fought with the spark.
“Fucking thing never works when I need it to,” he grumbled.
“Who was that?” Sythe tucked his hands in his pockets.
“That would be my father.” Wyatt laughed, the sound holding a bitter edge. “It’s a family business, yet I’m treated like an
outsider. Without me, he’d have nothing.”
Sythe nodded his head. “You deserve better.”
 “Right?” A vein pulsed violently in his forehead. “He’s an old man who would rather see my inheritance pissed away than
change. It’s why it won’t be long until I’ll be the one running things, making alliances that actually benefit the fucking family.”
The lighter clicked, the flame brightening as he lit his cigarette. With a groan, Wyatt inhaled, throwing his head back before
exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“I appreciate you having my back,” he continued. “Ivan’s a cunt who works for my father.”
Sythe chuckled. “Least I can do, mate.”
“He’ll be the first to go when I’m in charge.” He took another drag of his cigarette, his free hand twisting into a gun. “Bullet
right between the eyes.”
“Remind me never to piss you off.” Sythe accepted the cigarette when Wyatt held it out. “You’re still pretty secretive with
what you and your father do.”
“Like I said, friends can fuck you over.” Wyatt licked along his bottom lip, watching Sythe from the corner of his eye. “My
father works with exclusive collectables, while I deal more with the money side. Loaning it out and then collecting with
interest.”
“Just like Sailor.”
“Exactly.” Wyatt rubbed at his nose. “Like I said, there are certain expectations that come with my name. If Sailor, or his
father, doesn’t pay up by the time limit, well, then they’ll get another little visit from me. And next time, I won’t be leaving
without payment one way or another.”
Sythe breathed out smoke, chuckling. “Your life’s fucking hilarious man.”
Wyatt grinned. “You have no idea.”
A slight noise pricked Sythe’s ears, and he straightened, turning to look down a darkened alley.
Wyatt frowned, noticing the change. “Sy?”
Sythe scanned the shadows, his beast stilling inside his mind. He saw the man a few seconds before he stepped out into the
light. “Can we help you, mate?”
He wore black from head to toe, his movements jerky as he darted his gaze between them. He wasn’t from the club, his
clothes ripped and dirty, and he smelt like he hadn’t showered in a few days.
“My friend here asked you a fucking question.” Wyatt’s expression hardened.
“You ruined me,” the man said, his tone cold and controlled. “You and your fucking father.”
The snap of Wyatt’s lighter echoed around them, followed by a dark chuckle. “I have no idea who the fuck you are,” he
replied. “Now fuck off.”
“Did you not hear me?” The stranger put his hand beneath his worn jacket.
“Careful,” Sythe warned. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You ruined me,” the stranger continued, acting as if Sythe wasn’t even there. “I’ve lost everything. My business. My house.
My wife.”
Wyatt moved toe to toe with the man. “Last chance, or I’ll take your miserable life as well. Fuck,” he shoved a single finger
into his chest, pushing the stranger back, “off.”
A flash of silver, far faster than a human should be able to move. Sythe was on him in an instant, breaking the guy’s arm as
he pulled it behind his back. “Dude, what the fuck! I told you not to do anything stupid.”
It took a moment for the copper to register, his beast honed to the scent. Sythe noticed the handle of the small blade sticking
out of Wyatt’s side, a swell of blood darkening the surrounding fabric.
Sythe dropped the stranger, not caring as he scrambled away. “Don’t…”
It was too late, Wyatt pulling the knife out with a single tug.
“Fuck’s sake!” Sythe growled, catching Wyatt as he collapsed to his knees. The knife clanged to the pavement, barely five
inches in length. From the angle, it looked like it missed his major organs, yet the wound pumped out blood far faster than it
should. “Shit!”
“Prick stabbed me,” Wyatt said, his words beginning to slur. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“It’s nothing,” Sythe said, pressing his hand against the hole. “Barely a scratch.”
Except blood continued to pump violently, the liquid molten as it leaked between his fingertips, even with the added
pressure. Wyatt wasn’t clotting, and if Sythe didn’t act fast, he’d lose everything he’d been working for.
“I swear to the fucking Gods, if you die…”
Taking a risk, he called his arcane, pressing the smallest amount of his power to the wound. It sealed the skin closed, giving
Wyatt long enough for an ambulance to arrive. Sythe barely controlled the rage, biting through his usual patience, jumping into
the ambulance along with the paramedics. He remained calm, even when he was moved into a waiting area, and again when he
was allowed back into the private hospital room.
Wyatt looked peaceful amongst the white sheets, relaxed in his post-surgery sleep. Drugs and blood loss would be an easy
explanation if he woke up and asked about the arcane, not that he’d likely remember anything. Luckily, he would wake up, the
doctor assuring Sythe that they’d caught the injury in time. Except that was hours ago, and Sythe was still there.
 “Who the fuck are you?”
Sythe had heard the footsteps, but jumped to his feet just like a human would.
Fucking Fates.
In the threshold stood Angel Beauchamp, his face severe, eyes angry. “I asked you a question, boy,” he snapped when Sythe
remained silent.
“Sythe.” The secret to the perfect lie was to keep it as close to the truth as possible. “Sythe Black.”
“Breed?” Angel sneered, glaring at the tattoos that peeked beneath Sythe’s t-shirt. He purposely wore long sleeves,
revealing only the markings on his throat and hands.
Sythe forced a laugh. “Fuck no, thank the Light. I’m one hundred percent pure.”
Angel grunted in acknowledgment, but his eyes drifted down Sythe’s arms once more to settle on his hands. Most of his
glyphs were still there, blended amongst the thorns and roses he’d asked Kace to add. It was common enough knowledge that
druids tattooed glyphs on their body, but not to the same extent as the Guardians. A concealment charm wasn’t worth the risk
when they’re easily discoverable. So long sleeves it was, even if his arm ached beneath the fabric.
“You were with Wyatt. At the club,” he said, tension still apparent along his shoulders.
“Yes.”
He turned towards his son. “And the cunt who did this?”
“He’ll be dead when I find him.”
Angel nodded, his lips thinning. “The Doc said you saved his life by cauterising the wound with his lighter. He would’ve
bled out otherwise. Something to do with the amount of fucking cocaine he’d consumed.”
His eyes were direct when they met Sythe’s, reminding him of some bird of prey.
“I don’t like to be in debt, boy. But I can’t stand here and pretend you didn’t save him.” He held out his hand.
Sythe grabbed it, accepting the firm handshake.
“I’m glad he had a friend like you watching out for him. Us humans need to stick together,” Angel said, releasing his grip.
“Now stay. Watch over my idiot son while I sort out the paperwork. I’ll get him moved to a more secure facility while he’s
recovering.”
Sythe returned to the chair, watching the rise and fall of Wyatt’s chest. That wasn’t how he was supposed to meet Angel. It
wasn’t the plan, yet, for once, Sythe blessed the Fates he didn’t even believe in.
Fucking hell.
Seemed luck was really on his side.
 Chapter 6

Harper

H
arper eyed the necklace Christina wore, tight enough it dug into the plump flesh of her throat. The diamond was
unnecessarily large and was as fake as the grimoire placed on the table between them.
“What do you mean, it’s counterfeit?” Christina asked, magically enhanced lips lifting into a snarl. “Don’t be
absurd. This is the original ‘Tales of Magic’ written by the Daeizan himself.” She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the
leather-bound cover. “He wrote it for his human lover.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Clearly, you know nothing of Fae artefacts. I bought this piece at a respectable dealership almost ten years ago. Of course,
it’s real, you silly girl!”
Harper’s smile was forced. “Let me take another look.”
Reaching for the book, she carefully studied the entire piece again, making sure to go slowly, so Christina couldn’t accuse
her of anything. The threads along the spine were the palest blue, almost white, unless held at the right angle beneath the light.
A contrast to the near black of the leather. Matching blue foil covered the front, the delicate swirls exactly what was expected.
It matched all her research, even down to the floral pattern on the cloth covering and the deckle edging.
But it wasn’t real, she was sure of it. With anything of Fae origin, there was usually an echo of the creator. It was a feeling.
A gut instinct. With the book, she felt nothing but the weight of the paper and leather. There were no echoes or remnants of the
wild magic expected from an artefact supposedly from Asherah of Far.
Placing the book carefully back down, she stood.
Christina shot to her feet, knocking her cup to the floor with a crash. “Where do you think you’re going? You said you’d
offer half a million for it!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not what was described.” Harper turned to leave, finding her driver holding the door.
With cold, empty eyes, Charles waited. He was relatively small for a man, at only an inch or two taller than Harper. But he
held himself with confidence, his presence eating up the space.
“We’re not finished!” Christina’s hand snapped out, nails as sharp as talons as they dug into Harper’s forearm.
Harper made sure her tone remained calm. “Take your hand off me.”
“Not until—” Christina released her grip as Charles took a threatening step forward.
Harper ignored the sore skin, the nail imprints red. “Tell me, do you even know how many Daeizans there are?”
Christina’s face burned, her lips flapping open as she struggled to answer. “I… I should have known you’d waste my
bloody time.”
“There are six princes,” Harper continued, “including the lost shadow prince. So the grimoire couldn’t possibly be written
by ‘the Daeizan himself.’”
“It’s fine,” Christina sneered. “I already have someone else ready to buy it. You’ll regret this.”
Harper shook her head. “If you actually knew anything about the piece, you’d know that ‘Tales of Magic’ was written by the
Laeizania of the Dawn Court, and not a Daeizan.”
“Ma’am?” Charles held the door open once more. “It’s time for your next appointment.”
Harper waved at him to wait, keeping her attention on Christina. “We were interested because you were supposed to be an
expert on Fae relics and artefacts. But clearly that isn’t the case, which means you’ve wasted my time.”
Christina looked like she was ready to explode, the chain around her throat disappearing between the folds of her fevered
skin.
“Now, if you’d excuse me, I have another appointment.” Without giving Christina another moment, Harper let herself out of
the grand townhouse in the heart of Kensington. She politely waited for Charles to open the car door for her, rubbing the nail
indents on her arm as she glided onto the cool leather. It wasn’t unusual for him to drive her places, especially when she’d
never been allowed to drive herself. But it was the first time in years he’d invited himself inside, a silent babysitter she’d
never asked for.
Clearly her uncle was still upset that there’d been no progress with Mr Beckett and the Nivo Pilkinson painting, despite her
trying for over eight weeks to come to an agreement. She was sure his mood wouldn’t improve much once she explained the
grimoire was a counterfeit, too.
The drive back to the estate was short, the guests already arriving at her uncle’s annual party.
“Thank you, Charles,” she said as he opened her door.
With a nod, he slipped back into the car, leaving her on the steps. A pretentious red carpet had been added, the staff hired
specifically for the event waiting to greet the guests. Harper moved past them, ignoring the man with the list who snapped out
orders. Everyone was being escorted to the large library, and rather than follow, she moved towards the quiet study. It was a
place she usually hid when her uncle wasn’t around, examining his collection of artefacts, relics, and paintings displayed
proudly.
Holding out her hand, she brushed her fingers against a gold plate along his bookshelf. The markings in the centre always
changed depending on who was in the room, the swirls intricate and beautiful. It had always fascinated her the way Fae items
seemed to have a personality of their own, despite being inanimate objects. Not that she would ever admit her fascination.
Her uncle had always collected such things ever since she was a little girl. A man who hated everything Breed, and yet
coveted the most non-human items possible. Some he sold on, making a profit, while others he kept for himself. All displayed
in his study in one way or another.
Brushing her fingers back across the centre of the plate, a gentle sensation tingled up her arm. It was faint, old, but the
magic echo was still there.
“Harper, there you are!” A bark, one that had her snapping her hand back as if she’d been scolded. “Why aren’t you
dressed?”
Harper faced her uncle, his tuxedo a crisp dark blue with a black bowtie. The chain hung neatly around his neck, the
opulent golden key he usually wore hidden beneath his shirt. Tonight, he had it out on display.
“I’m sorry, the meeting ran over.”
His footsteps cracked against the wood. “The party’s already started, and what have I told you about having your hair
down?”
Harper froze, allowing him to pull the hair from her back. He liked everyone to see the scar that started in the centre of her
shoulder blades, only to curl up towards her neck. She knew the skin was darker there, outlining what looked like a single
flame. It meant nothing to the majority of the population, but it was a symbol of power to those who followed the Church of the
Light.
A symbol of the Gods.
“Your hair’s below your shoulders. It needs to be cut again,” he demanded, going to the jewellery display in the corner and
pulling the drawer open. Inside, he pulled out a comb, the teeth made from a shiny opal and as sharp as knives. He slid the
delicate piece into her hair, pinning everything on top of her head.
It tingled against her scalp, but the magical echo was even more slight than the plate she’d touched earlier.
“You’ll wear this.” His words were edged with annoyance. “And don’t worry, I’ve made sure your dress is suitable.
You’re to work the room tonight, so I need you to shine.”
“Actually,” she began. “I’m thinking about missing—”
“We’re not having this argument again,” he interrupted with a scowl. “You know exactly why you’re going.”
Harper bit her tongue, knowing it would be easier to just wait until he’d drunk enough before slipping out.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that she was a Beauchamp, but it wasn’t exactly common knowledge, either. Her uncle preferred
to keep her private. She was purposely taught to be quiet and elusive unless asked. For display purposes only. She was never
invited to events outside of the estate, and unless it involved hunting an artefact or securing a deal on something Angel wanted,
she became nothing but a pretty bauble that roamed the halls. Much like one of his collectables.
A bauble that was taught how to charm, listen, and remember the secrets the elite spill when provided with bottomless
champagne. Dirt Angel could use against them if needed.
“I’m not feeling—”
His head whipped back, eyes pinning her in place. “Did you have another episode?” At her silence, he stormed over,
gripping her jaw in one hand and angling her face. “Answer me, Harper. Did you have another episode?”
“No,” she lied, knowing if she admitted it, he’d make her go through more tests. Angel loved her in his own way, but she
couldn’t put herself through the tests that did nothing but degrade and humiliate her. The doctors had been useless, the best
money could buy, and not one could help or explain. “It’s just a headache,” she explained instead. “I’ll take a painkiller when I
get changed.”
He held her jaw for a moment longer before releasing. “Good. I need you to socialise with these fucking peacocks. See if
you can figure out which one bought the Tanaka Kintsugi. Cunt outbid me at the last second.”
 “Yes, uncle.”
“This is important, Harp. I want it for my collection.” He spun towards his desk, reaching into his top drawer. “I heard the
pottery was originally broken by a Fae royalty, and it was them who’d commissioned the gold.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.”
“You do that.” He pulled out a cigar, cutting off the tip. “Fucking Fae.” His eyes scanned across his walls, settling on the
golden plate she’d touched earlier. “London has become overrun with those disgusting monsters. They’ve taken over the city of
my birth, of my father’s, and his father before that.” He lit the end of the cigar, taking a few puffs. “Their presence pollutes the
good human folk who keep to the Light.”
Only years of etiquette training allowed Harper to keep her face still, to not portray her emotions. Taking another drag of
his cigar, Angel reached over to brush his finger down the white strip in her fringe. It was something that had happened around
the same time as her scar.
Harper hated the touch, the ring on his finger glinting. She’d felt it enough times over the years, the metal leaving welts.
Angel was always careful not to mark her face.
“Charles informed me of the outcome of the grimoire,” he said. “You did well not to fall for the counterfeit.”
The praise washed over her, and she hated her need for validation. “I’ll keep a lookout for the original.”
“No, leave it for now. Wyatt’s asked for your help on a special project he needs you to work on. I’m hoping it keeps him
distracted.”
“Special project?” The one thing she enjoyed was researching a new piece of art, relic, or artefact. The hunt, and then the
adrenaline of finding it, the only thing she looked forward to. There were many things her uncle had asked her to find for him
over the years, and not many had she failed. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to discuss it with him.” He smiled, making his face appear softer, warmer. “I’m sure he’ll provide you the
details soon, but right now, you need to get ready. You’re a reflection of me, after all.”
With a gentle nod, she made her way towards the door, knowing he’d be timing exactly how long it took her to get changed.
“Wear the black,” he shouted after her. “And remember, don’t disappoint me.”
 Chapter 7

Harper

H
arper wore black, the dress found waiting for her once she’d returned to her room. The entire thing was held up by thin
cords, crisscrossing her chest to leave the fabric open to her sternum. It displayed more breast than she cared to show in
a room full of rich vultures looking for a younger wife. But that was what Angel wanted, for them to look. To want, but
not touch.
The majority of her back was exposed, displaying the large brand and scars that were nothing but a statement.
Ugh, for the love of Light, she thought. She hated being on display, a play piece in a game she didn’t know how to play.
Ignoring the attention on her bare skin, Harper entered to be met with Angel’s frosty glare. She’d removed the comb from
the top of her head, instead sliding it just above her quickly styled ponytail. Her scar was still noticeable, but she knew he
wouldn’t appreciate even a tiny amount of hair from obscuring it.
He wanted her to work the room, to quietly listen to the conversations and charm potential business associates. But she had
no intention of talking to anyone at the party unless forced.
No, she planned to stand in the corner and watch. It was what she was taught to do, technically. Her having to be closer to
his acquaintances came later, once he’d realised her face was just something else he could use to get what he wanted.
Accepting a drink from a passing server, Harper moved to stand slightly behind the ice sculpture. The library had been
transformed into yet another ostentatiously expensive social gathering, one with draped fabrics and gold edged glasses. It
wasn’t her uncle’s usual style, but the show of wealth was something expected in a room full of new money. Old money were
more reserved. Subtle in the ways they showed off their fortune.
They didn’t usually have fast cars or wear flashy branded designers. They had drivers and wore £10,000 black t-shirts that
looked as if they’d been bought from the local supermarket.
In the hundred or so attending, Harper knew only a small handful were from old money. Not that it mattered to her uncle.
All he cared about was power and influence, something that he believed was slipping between his fingers. The amount of
money in someone’s bank account didn’t matter anymore, and that bothered him.
So because of his paranoia, she had to watch the rich elite pretend to tolerate one another once per year. To listen to them
drone on about uninteresting anecdotes that received fake, forced laughs.
At least the wine was delicious.
Harper walked to the other side of the ice sculpture, scanning the crowd. She could name everyone in the room, as well as
their net worth. Information she’d picked up over the years. It helped with research, as many of those that attended were also
collectors of expensive, unique things. Pointless in the grand scheme of things, but it gave her something to do while she
waited.
Thirty more minutes—that was how much longer she had to pretend. Then she could slip away unnoticed.
Taking another sip of her wine, Harper began to walk around the outer edge of the crowd, only to pause when she spotted
someone she didn’t recognise.
She knew everyone invited. That was the point of her attending. So who was…
The man turned, and Harper froze on the spot. His eyes widened in recognition, but his cool expression didn’t flicker.
Holy Light. What was he doing here?
Harper found herself moving across the room, the wine glass gripped tightly between her fingers. The Gods must hate her,
because no way was the only man she’d ever been attracted to standing there in a black, ridiculously tight t-shirt and jeans with
rips at the knees. How had she not noticed him in the first place? He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the tuxedos and
evening gowns.
“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly, looking over her shoulder to make sure her uncle was elsewhere.
“Can’t get enough of me, can you, darling?” he said, grabbing the glass from her hand and drinking the rest of her wine.
 “You need to leave. Right now,” she bit out, clenching her fists even as heat curled through her stomach. Panic made her
words sharp, her hand reaching out without thought to wrap around his wrist. “Please, you need to—”
He spun them until she was the one pressed against the wall, his larger body blocking her from sight. “Careful, darling,” he
warned, dropping his head closer to her height. “I’m here for a job, not to play with a pretty little thing who left me so fucking
hard I ached for days.”
Harper pressed herself harder against the wall at her back. She wanted to shove against his chest, but she couldn’t. Not
with an audience. It would go against the proper etiquette when speaking to a guest.
He made her feel out of control, the risk of exposure growing with every passing second. “Get out of my way.” She’d
worked too hard to get where she was for him to mess it up.
“Or what?” he whispered against her skin, his expression empty of the desire she felt pulsing the air between them.

SYTHE

What a load of pretentious fucks.

When Wyatt had asked him over, Sythe didn’t think it would be in the centre of a giant bloody party. Not that he was
complaining. People watching was one of his favourite hobbies.
But he looked out of place in his casual clothes, a stark contrast to the expensive gowns worn by those actually invited. He
was thrown some cautious glares, but no one dared approach him.
So he waited, studying every face in the room. There were a few security on the edges, their postures stiff and threatening.
Professional enough, so Sythe mirrored their stance. His first task had been to get into the estate, and after a weird turn of
events, there he was. Now, he just had to figure out how to stay there.
The meeting with Angel Beauchamp had to go perfectly, which meant accepting anything and everything asked of him.
Angel needed a bodyguard? Sythe was the man for the job. They needed a new cleaner? He’d drop to his knees and scrub the
floor without complaint. Sythe didn’t care what it was, as long as in the end he found the information he came for.
He didn’t give a flying fuck about Wyatt Beauchamp, Angel Beauchamp, or even the Church of the Light. All he cared about
were the Daemons in which they were somehow mixed with. It was the sole reason he was there. The sole reason for his
bloody existence, technically.
Gideon and his gaggle of horned dickheads were already a huge problem. Not to mention his own fucking soldiers, the
Undead. Appropriately named, considering they were nothing but empty puppets that slowly withered away beneath Gideon’s
power. When one died, he’d simply find another poor soul and create a new minion and the circle repeats.
Reports of missing people had risen fifty percent or so in the last six months. Not that the Council of Six were
acknowledging the fact. Although it was bound to happen sooner rather than later. Sythe was sure the Order were doing
everything in their power to hide the problem, the continued existence of the horned fuckers an embarrassment to the
Archdruid.
Daemons were the druid’s dirty little secret, at least amongst the general populace. The Council knew and expected
Archdruid Edwards to deal with it. Edwards expected the Guardians to deal with it, which they were. Technically. Just not
under the Order’s authority.
Which brought him back to the Beauchamp’s. Angel had money, more than most people would ever see in their lifetime. If
he was funding Gideon, the results could be catastrophic.
So it was up to Sythe and his brothers to destroy every single one of the horned bastards that threatened the balance.
Where the fuck was Wyatt? he thought, crossing his arms while the pretenders mingled with their gold painted glasses of
champagne.
Sythe didn’t expect to be left so long. But then again, he never expected to have to wait in a room full of pompous arseholes
either. Keeping his expression neutral in case he was being watched, Sythe scanned the crowd.
His beast stilled, an almost heavy pressure in the centre of his skull.
What in the Fates?
A woman in a flowing black dress stared at him, the swell of her breasts crushed beneath thin cords that wrapped around
her chest like vipers. The fabric hugged the indent of her waist, flaring out at her perfect hips. He felt pinned, especially when
he met the beautiful eyes of his mysterious girl.
She didn’t seem happy to see him, but Sythe couldn’t bring himself to care as she walked over like a carefully suppressed
storm. Weeks she’d invaded his thoughts. Weeks of remembering the way he’d coaxed her lips to accept his tongue, and how
she’d soaked his thighs when he touched her just right.
Weeks of accepting he’d never see her again.
 His beast rumbled, pressing at the edge of his mind. Wanting him to finish what they’d started.
No, Sythe cursed, only for his beast to snarl in return.
“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly, barely sparing him a glance before looking over her shoulder.
“Can’t get enough of me, can you, darling?” he teased, unable to stop himself. He grabbed the glass she was ready to break
with her grip, drinking down the remainder of the wine.
He allowed himself to smile despite the growing frustration at her presence. She shouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be there.
From the way she tightened her fist, she seemed to think the same of him.
“You need to leave. Right now.” Her hand reached out to wrap around his right wrist, the ache along his skin instantaneous.
“Please, you need to—”
He spun her until she was the one pressed against the wall, wanting to groan at how her lips parted at his rough touch. He
didn’t pin her like he craved, instead curving his larger frame over hers until she couldn’t look anywhere but him.
“Careful, darling,” he warned. “I’m here for a job, not to play with a pretty little thing who left me so fucking hard I ached
for days.”
His cock twitched at the memory, clearly not over it.
What the fuck was wrong with him? He was there for a job, nothing more and nothing less. So why did he find himself
wanting to push her? To see whether she’d submit to him so easily, just like the night at the club.
She tensed, his beast amused at the fire she tried to conceal beneath cool superiority.
“Get out of my way.” Her words held a bite, her dark brows pressing together in irritation.
“Or what?” he whispered against her skin, tension wrapping itself around his chest like a vise. He knew his face didn’t
show anything other than militant boredom, and definitely not how much he wanted to hear her moan his name. Again.
Fuck.
She was going to mess everything up, and yet he didn’t stop himself from brushing the white wisps of hair that framed her
beautiful face.
She flinched, pulling away. “Don’t—”
“Sythe, there you are.” A hand on his shoulder, and Sythe turned to grin at Wyatt.
“Just introducing myself to the pretty lady,” Sythe said with a chuckle. “It’s Sythe, by the way. Sythe Black.”
“I wouldn’t bother, she’s not worth it.” Wyatt’s eyes were hard when they landed on his mysterious girl. “Shouldn’t you be
serving drinks or something?”
Mysterious girl lifted her chin, staring unblinking at Wyatt. “Shouldn’t you be resting? Considering you’ve only just been
released from hospital?”
“Nah, I’m good as new.” Wyatt patted a hand against his side, covered in a crisp white shirt. Something far more
appropriate for the room. “You sure you didn’t send that prick after me?” He laughed, but there was an edge to the question.
Her smile tightened. “Angel said you needed me for something.” She looked so prim and proper, with her head held high
and her shoulders back. Her makeup was pristine, with thick eyeliner emphasising those fucking eyes and a red lipstick so deep
he ached to smudge it just so she didn’t look so perfect. So beautiful.
She was untouchable, like fucking royalty.
“He’s already approved your help, so you can’t get out of it.” Wyatt’s tone was short. “I’ll get the details to you later.”
“Sure.” Harper swallowed, and Sythe couldn’t help but watch the delicate ripple of her throat. She flicked her gaze to his,
but didn’t say anything as she slipped into the crowd.
Sythe struggled to pull his attention away, her hair tied up to reveal the long line of her throat, and the dark marks that
dominated the skin of her back.
A fucking flame. That was what she displayed so proudly. The flame of Light.
“Careful,” Wyatt said, his tone turning serious. “She’s family, which means she’s off limits.”
Sythe froze, just a subtle stiffening of his shoulders. Family. Did he just hear that right?
“That’s just Harper, my cousin.”
Fuck the Fates.
Sythe didn’t like surprises. It was the reason he researched everything so thoroughly before going dark. He liked to know
everything, even down to the little insignificant details that many overlooked. It made it easier for him to adapt his character, to
roll with the situation without tripping over his carefully constructed web of lies.
Mystery girl was a big fucking surprise.
Sythe knew of Harper Beauchamp, but all his research showed her as a young child, and not as the woman who’d fucking
clawed her way into his head. She was an anomaly, someone who shunned the limelight despite her famous name. She was
mentioned in collaborations with different art galleries, but nothing else. Which made her a fucking ghost he didn’t expect.
“So, are we ready?” he asked, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind. Right then, they didn’t matter. “Or am I
supposed to be some rich pricks entertainment?”
She was a complication he didn’t see coming, but nothing worse than he’d dealt with before. If he stayed away, she
wouldn’t become an issue.
“Your mouth’s going to get you killed.” Wyatt shook his head, slapping Sythe on the back with his palm. “Come on, my
father wants to meet you.”
 Chapter 8

Sythe

C
oncentrate, Sythe thought, ignoring his beast’s urge to track down his mystery girl. Fur brushed beneath his skin,
threatening to release. Enough! he scolded, not used to any resistance from his beast. They were usually in sync. A
perfect team when it came to fighting, fucking, and everything in between. Sythe was probably one of the only Guardians
who was relieved to have bonded to his beast, but right then, it was like sharing his soul with a disgruntled child.
A bad tempered huff, but the pressure inside Sythe’s mind eased.
Mystery girl was a Beauchamp. The same family who were open followers of the Church of the Light. She was the enemy.
End of. There would be no tracking her down, and definitely no finishing what they started at the club.
She followed a faith that wanted to eradicate all Breed.
She couldn’t be trusted.
“You coming?” Wyatt asked, looking over his shoulder with a frown.
Sythe blinked, realising he’d stopped in one of the hallways. “Sorry, man. This house is fucking huge.” Far bigger than it
looked outside, even with the surrounding gardens. “I’ll follow.”
He knew the estate stretched over twenty thousand square feet, and was bordered with an iron and silver wrought metal
fence. The house was five stories, including the underground garage. He’d studied the blueprint enough times to walk around
the place blindfolded.
The grounds itself was in the millions alone, not including the house. The size a rare find so deep within the city, and oozed
so much fucking money it made his teeth ache.
Wyatt vibrated with a nervous energy beside him, his hands clenched at his sides. “You need to show him respect, yeah?”
he said, eyes direct when they met Sythe’s. “He’s not a man to be told no. Don’t fuck this up.”
“Sure.” Sythe kept a step behind, allowing Wyatt to lead him towards the study.
Angel Beauchamp stood with his back to the door, staring into a roaring fire. One arm was behind his back, head slightly
dipped to the dancing flames. Ivan stood to his left, dressed in a suit as equally as expensive, with a bald head that looked
purposely shined. A pistol was strapped to his hip, his hand moving to hover in threat.
“You’re underdressed,” Angel commented, not even bothering to look.
Wyatt crossed his arms. “You know I don’t like these things. I wasn’t going to stay long.”
Angel scoffed, turning fully to reveal a glass of amber liquid. He took a sip, eyes narrowed towards his son. “How many
times have I told you about presentation? You’re a Beauchamp. We’re expected to look a certain way.” His attention turned to
Sythe, glare an almost physical brand as he studied Sythe’s cheap, worn jeans and black t-shirt before settling on the silver
chain around his throat.
He'd worn it on purpose, another subtle detail that would sink into Angel’s subconscious. Fae preferred not to wear metal,
and neither did shifters.
Wyatt took a step forward, his muscles bunched beneath his pristine white shirt. “This is—”
“I know who it is,” Angel snapped, taking another sip of his amber liquid. “I asked for the meeting, you stupid boy. Of
course I know who it fucking is.”
Wyatt stiffened beside him, but Sythe kept his gaze trained forward.
Angel’s irritation was palpable. “Mr Black, tell me what happened to the man who hurt my son.”
“Dead, just like I promised.” Not technically a lie. Sythe had tracked the guy down a day after the incident, only to find him
already dead with a bottle of pills clutched in his palm.
“Good.” Angel gestured to the seat before his desk, taking his own with the fireplace at his back. “My son seems to think
you’re one of us.”
Wyatt shuffled from one foot to the other. “He’s a—”
“Did I ask you?” Angel interrupted Wyatt before returning to Sythe. “I take a great interest in all my son’s friends, and your
history’s quite interesting. Isn’t it?”
Sythe straightened himself in his seat, keeping the eye contact. “In what way, Sir?”
His glass clinked loudly as he set it down. “You were born and raised in the Bricks. Orphaned by fifteen, and have a rap
sheet as long as my arm. Petty theft all the way up to ABH.”
Thank you Titus, he thought, knowing he owed his brother big time.
“So I’m poor and resolve issues with my fists. What’s your point?”
“Sythe,” Wyatt rumbled low, nudging him in the arm just as Angel’s personal bodyguard took a step forward.
“No, it’s quite alright.” Angel leaned back in his chair, holding his hand up to the guard. “You don’t know who I am, do
you, boy?”
Sythe ignored the irritation at being called ‘boy’ at almost thirty. “Should I?”
“Probably.” Angel cocked his head, his smile not containing an ounce of warmth. “I find it hard to believe you’ve never
heard of the name.”
Sythe shrugged. “I don’t think we share the same friendship circles.”
“Hmmm. We’ve been having some issues with… loyalty within my men recently. Some fucking rodent trying to break us
apart. You have to understand my caution about a stranger who’s suddenly friendly with my son. I’m always wary about ulterior
motives when it comes to anyone sniffing around family.”
A rat? Now that’s interesting.
“What the fuck has any of this got to do with me?” Sythe said aloud, purposely turning to Wyatt.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you!” Angel stood, moving around the desk to sit on the edge. “We’re a private family,
and I’ve been told you’re worth a chance. So, tell me Mr Black. Are you worth a chance?”
Sythe rested his hands on his thighs. “Depends if you’re going to fuck me over or not.”
A bark of laughter. “I have to say, I appreciate your honesty. Not many have the balls to speak to me how you are.”
Sythe kept himself relaxed, almost bored.
Angel pursed his lips. “Your instincts saved my son,” he continued, matter of factly. “Not many would have helped him.”
Sythe frowned, finally allowing some emotions to break through. “I couldn’t leave him vulnerable.”
“Exactly.” Angel nodded as if he was confirming something. “Tell me, what are you looking for?”
Sythe frowned. “Looking for, Sir?”
“In life, Mr Black. Is it money? Success? You live in a shitty flat only a mile from where you grew up. You clearly lack
funds, and unless you’re able to get a job soon, you’ll likely lose the place.”
Arsehole. “Money means fuck all when you’re dead. I get by, I always do.”
“Hmm.” Angel stared for a moment. “I told you before I don’t like to be in debt.”
Sythe waited.
“I have a proposition for you, one that will benefit us both.” He pointedly stared at Sythe’s cheap clothes. “My son’s
stupidity last week has proven he needs someone at his back. Someone who’s loyal to the family.”
“Father, I’ve already told you—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Angel growled, not letting Wyatt speak. “You’ve disappointed me enough already. You’ve spiralled
these past few months, and people are going to notice soon enough. It makes you a liability.”
“I’m not—”
Angel smashed his fist against his desk, the crack loud against the wood. “I said shut the fuck up.”
The guard widened his stance, dead eyes flicking between all three of them.
“Loyalty’s earned,” Sythe said, licking along his bottom lip. “I trust Wyatt, but I don’t know you from Adam.”
“It’s not me who needs to prove themselves.” Angel stood, turning towards the flames. “Like I said before I was
interrupted, I have a proposal that you may find interesting. Wyatt needs a new right-hand man. Someone to protect him while
he runs certain errands that require a little more… force.”
“So you want me to be his friend?” Sythe asked, brow quirked. “I thought you’d just said—”
“You’ll receive a healthy wage,” Angel interrupted. “As well as your most recent charge removed from your record. In
return, you’ll use those fists of yours for a purpose.”
Sythe cocked his head, waiting long enough for them to believe he was debating it. “What about the rest of my record?”
A dark chuckle. “What will it be, Mr Black? I can assure you, my men are treated with the utmost respect, as long as the
same respect is returned.”
“Does that mean you’re going to skin the rat once you find him?”
Angel’s eyes glittered with amusement. “So, what will it be?”
Sythe looked to Wyatt, who was gritting his teeth so hard it looked as if they’d break. “What do you need me to do?”
Angel took his time answering, reaching for his glass and taking a slow sip. “Before we begin, I’ll need you to demonstrate
to me that you’re one of us. That your faith and views align with ours.”
“So removing the fucker who stabbed Wyatt wasn’t enough?” Sythe scowled. “Be straight with me, Mr Beauchamp. None
of this confusing bullshit.”
“Angel.” The amber liquor swirled. “Not Mr Beauchamp. Only call me Angel unless I tell you otherwise.”
“Angel,” Sythe repeated. “So why me? Like you’ve just said, I’m a nobody from the wrong side of the city. I don’t need
your money, or your status, or whatever the fuck else you’re offering. I do absolutely fine on my own.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m interested. It seems my Wyatt was right.” He clicked his fingers, and the guard moved towards
the door. “Now let’s see if you live up to my expectations. You have forty-eight hours to prove yourself. My son will give you
the details.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them. “Let the Light guide you.”
 Chapter 9

Harper

H
arper sat cross-legged on the floor, the latest book she’d been studying open on her lap. She’d surrounded herself in all
the journals and tomes she had access to, but still she couldn’t find much on the artefact Wyatt had asked her to find.
He’d provided her a single page torn from an unknown book, a drawing surrounded in worn away text. It was
unintelligible and gave her nothing other than the name.
Calicem Animarum.
Latin, translated to ‘Cup of Souls.’
A chalice, one apparently made from solid gold and surrounded in black stones cool to the touch. Not much of a
description, but it was something, she guessed. She’d found collectables with less information before, but the chalice seemed
to be giving her a little trouble. Other than the torn page, she couldn’t find any knowledge of its existence.
She’d already gone through several scripts, and while there were plenty of cups, none that matched. Flipping through a few
more pages of the large grimoire balanced on her knees, she hesitated on one of the notes.
‘Drink in absorption of one’s soul, there lies power within the tongue.’
She had no idea what the hell it meant, or whether it referenced to her chalice. The book was handwritten, with the pages
ripped, and much of the ink smeared or damaged over the years. It made it hard to decipher, especially with the random odd
ramblings by the author that seemed completely irrelevant to the page. Not much made sense, and after forty-eight hours, she
still didn’t have a single lead.
Which meant she’d have Wyatt barking at her heels before long. Harper placed the book down, staring at them all in a row.
This was the first time Wyatt had asked her directly to find something for him, and that terrified her. She purposely kept herself
away from Wyatt as much as possible, her cousin someone who didn’t hide his disdain for her. He had a short fuse, and many
times she’d been caught at the end of his temper.
So why did he ask her for help?
What did he want with a chalice?
A gentle buzz, one muffled beneath the blanket thrown on the floor beside her. Harper frowned, hesitant to reach for the
phone. She rarely received messages or calls unless in relation to a sale, and she definitely wasn’t expecting anything. Unless it
was…
Checking to make sure the door was closed, she raised the blanket, keeping the phone hidden from view beneath the thick
fabric.
The car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. Not a single cry must be uttered. Silence in honour of the Gods.

Ice through her veins, the phone creaking with how hard she held it.
No. No. No.
It hadn’t been that long since the last time she’d been called.
The door to her bedroom swung open and Ivan, her uncle’s personal guard, stood there with a white robe in his meaty fist.
For the briefest second, fear paralysed her, her stomach wanting to projectile vomit at the thought of him being in her room. But
then, without a word, he threw the robe, the light fabric landing on her open books.
She stared at the robe, so white it made everything around it harsh in comparison. She wanted to ask Ivan to leave, to give
her privacy, but she knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t part of the ceremony to be watched, but it wasn’t like she could stop him.
She’d tried and always failed.
With shaking hands, she pulled down her skirt, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see him. She hated him. Despised the way
he looked at her. Watched her when he thought no one was looking. He saw her as nothing but an object to do with as he
wished, even when she fought or cried.
 He waited with trained patience, his attention never leaving her body as she quickly lifted her top to reveal her breasts, and
then yanked the robe over her head. The fabric was soft, as it always was. A small comfort.
Moving towards the door, he stepped in front of her. “Take them off,” he said, his accent slight. When she didn’t
immediately follow his command, he grabbed her arm.
She couldn’t stop him as he pulled up the robe and tugged down her underwear in a quick, mechanical movement.
She didn’t protest or even speak. If she did, she risked something far worse than what was about to happen.
Once he was satisfied, he pulled up her hood, big enough it covered her face to show only her bottom lip and jaw. She
carefully followed him through the house, dread a heavy weight growing in her chest with each step.
“Come on, you know what he’s like if we’re late,” Wyatt muttered, already seated in the car. Anger seemed to vibrate
beneath his skin, his movement agitated.
Ivan pushed against the centre of her back, forcing her into the seat beside her cousin. The door slammed, and Harper
closed her eyes once more.
Wyatt didn’t say anything else, and Harper was thankful for it. He usually liked to berate her, knowing she couldn’t speak
back while she wore the robe. He’d become crueller the last few years, even more so than his father. He didn’t hide his
disdain.
The drive to the church took longer than usual, the traffic busy towards the centre of the city. The Church of the Light was
modest compared to other beliefs, with only a handful of churches that practised the faith. It was what she’d been brought up
believing, the honour of being born pure, human. It taught her that those that could access their chi, therefore their magic, were
unfavoured by the Gods, and it was those Gods that set the individuals path in life. The Gods decided who you would grow up
to be, who’d you marry, and when you’d die. The Gods wrote your destiny, depending how strictly you followed their rules.
The rules depicted by the Leader.
She was taught humans were the perfect specimen of man because they couldn’t hide behind the deceitful magic, and that
ideology fit her family’s narrative perfectly.
The car rumbled to a stop, her heart thundering violently in her chest. The Sanctuary was a perfectly square building, and
somehow so white despite the surrounding pollution. There was no indication to what was inside, nothing other than the small
flame that marked the wood of the right door. That symbol alone brought a sliver of panic, something she immediately doused
before anyone noticed. She wasn’t allowed to be a person right then. She had to be a vessel for the pain of her family.
“Get this over with quickly,” Wyatt whispered before his door was opened.
Angel welcomed her with a smile, pride holding himself tall. “There she is.” He stood at the top of the three steps, Ivan
moving to stand by his side.
Harper waited, the hood making it difficult to see clearly. It was Charles who helped her out of the car and carefully
walked her up the steps until her uncle could grip her arm.
“Good,” he said, adjusting her hood. “The Gods will be pleased.” He guided her into the church, the pews empty either
side of the aisle, just as they usually were. Angel stopped at the end, Lorraine lighting the twin flames each side of the pedestal.
Harper didn’t need to look up through her hood to read the quote draped along the back wall. She’d spent enough time as a
child on her knees praying with the same words staring down at her.
‘Faith is seeing the Light in your heart when all you see is darkness in others.’
Her uncle had followed the church for as long as Harper could remember, fixated with their mantra of cleansing the world
of Breed. Her entire life she’d prayed to the Gods, following orders from Leaders who filled their worshippers with animosity
and fear.
A low hum filled the room, Lorraine mumbling something so low the words were tangled together. She produced a large
curved knife from within her sleeve, holding it out to Angel just as she had many times before.
Harper knelt between the two flames, the heat a sting that would only get worse. She should be thankful that the room was
almost empty, her humiliation limited to those that have witnessed it before. Not that she felt humiliated anymore, her mind
numb to the ceremony just as her body had to be.
Dropping her head forward, she relaxed, placing her palms facing up on her thighs.
The knife struck her back, carving a thin slice from shoulder to shoulder. Harper didn’t wince, flinch, or cry out. She took
the flagellation in silence, a penance for the sins of her family.
“Let the Light bless our…”
Harper drowned out Lorraine’s voice, the tone always sterner when she spoke as the Leader. Instead, she concentrated on
not moving with every strike of the blade. The cuts were never deep, just enough for her to bleed. A physical offering of her
blood to the Gods in exchange for prosperity, forgiveness, and salvation for their souls.
“Stay still,” Angel snapped, the knife sinking a little deeper than usual.
Harper swallowed, unable to control the slight tremble in her muscles. The fabric of her robe was in shreds, leaving her
back entirely bare to the room. Hands around her face, Lorraine brushing her thumbs against Harper’s cheeks to catch the tears
that wet her skin.
 “So beautiful,” she muttered. “The Gods are pleased as usual.”
“She’s getting too old,” Wyatt said from one of the pews. “Her beauty won’t last.”
“Enough, Wyatt,” Angel growled, followed by a sharp tug as he pulled the remainder of her robe off. “Get the water.”
Harper’s eyes struggled to adjust to the light, Lorraine pinning her head in place. Excitement danced in her eyes, like every
time she’d held Harper down for the ceremony.
“You’re doing so well,” she cooed quietly, but there was no sincerity there.
The twin flames either side burned brightly, intense across Harper’s exposed skin. She braced herself, knowing the last bit
was the most painful.
“Our Gods blessed us with the Light,” Lorraine continued with a more authoritative tone. “With the comfort that they’ll
protect our mortal souls. By cleansing the dirt and filth from this woman, we cleanse ourselves. Washing away the sins and
fears, and bringing with it a peace that only the Gods could gift.”
Silence, nothing but the water being disturbed. A single drip, cold against the heat of her wounds.
“Bring blessings to this family,” Angel added, swiping across her back. “Continued protection from those that wish to do us
harm.”
Harper barely suppressed her scream, the water like acid with every swipe of the cloth.
“Let the Light guide you.” Lorraine released her head, and Harper fell forward onto her palms.
“And give us sanctuary from the darkness.” Angel washed the blood, pressing his fingers into the cuts to clean beneath her
skin. Her body trembled, more tears escaping from her eyes that had squeezed shut. And still she remained silent, even after it
was complete and she was left shaking on the floor.
“You’ve done the family proud,” Angel murmured, gently tucking her hair behind her ear. “The Gods will be happy with
our gift, I can feel it.”
His footsteps faded, and still she didn’t utter a sound.
This was where she was supposed to pray, her head bowed in submission as she thanked the Gods for her life. Except she
couldn’t pray, not a single word forming in her mind in honour of the five Gods. They were recognised as separate spirits, each
a different spectrum of light that combined into one singular voice that whispered to the Leader, whomever that be at the time.
The Gods were the meaning of life. The strength of the humans that were pure, undiluted by the Breed that had stained the
earth.
An hour. That was how long she was supposed to remain there, between the fires that continued to burn, chasing away the
shadows and bathing her in light. An hour to control the tremors in her muscles before she had to stand on her own and walk
out unassisted. Naked. Vulnerable.
She’d only had to suffer the ceremony once or twice a year since she was fifteen, but recently it had been increasing. The
scars had barely healed last time, and now her back was sliced open once more. She had to endure the ceremony, as well as the
healing phase, with no pain relief.
The room should be empty, but there were footsteps. Quiet in their pattern, but they made her tense at their approach
nonetheless. She knew it would be Wyatt who knelt beside her, not bothering to turn her head to confirm. He was the only one
who’d risk the wrath of Lorraine, Angel likely already gone back to celebrate.
“Looks like you’re on your knees again,” he whispered, so low she barely heard it over her own breathing. “Do you think
the Gods appreciate this?” He moved close enough she felt him pressed against her naked side.
Harper trembled, arms barely able to hold her weight as she tried to move away.
“It’s always an honour,” she whispered in return, knowing it was the right thing to say. “For our family.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He threw a blanket over her back, the fabric rough as it scraped against her cuts. “I’m sure the Gods
appreciate someone with tainted blood sacrificing themselves for ‘our’ family.”
It was an insult he’d thrown at her since they were kids. That she wasn’t as good as him. Wasn’t as pure.
Harper let out a strangled cry, Wyatt pressing his palm against her back.
“The Gods don’t give a shit about all this fanfare, all they care about is honesty.”
He pressed a little harder, and her arms finally collapsed. She barely caught herself as she crashed to the floor, her
shoulder taking most of the impact.
Wyatt laughed, the callous sound rattling down her spine. “And you’re always honest, aren’t you, Harper?”
“The Leader’s coming,” she said, proud her voice didn’t shake. “You can’t be caught here.”
Wyatt’s grin set her on edge. “Can’t I?” Wrapping his fist in her hair, he yanked her head up, arching her back. “Since when
do you tell me where I can and can’t be?”
Harper swallowed her scream, knowing it only made him more reactive.
“Remember, you are nothing but a pet, Harper,” he whispered against the side of her face. “So be a good girl and do what I
say and find that cup. Otherwise, I’ll invite a few of the guys over again, since you enjoyed it so much last time.”
Harper froze at his threat, vomit burning the back of her throat.
“Trust me, I can make your already depressing life so much fucking worse.”
 Chapter 10

Sythe

N
ot so mysterious girl was dangerous.
She was a Beauchamp, a member of the corrupt family he was trying to destroy. Yet he couldn’t shift the image of
her pressed against the wall at the pompous party, desire burning her skin while her eyes darkened with defiance.
His beast had never been so infatuated with a woman, and honestly, neither had the man. He had to stay away, because she
was a temptation that could finally push past his carefully constructed facade. He needed to remember he was Sythe Black, a
character created specifically for the situation. He wasn’t real, despite how close to the truth he kept it.
She was poison.
Pushing thoughts of a certain white and brunette haired woman from his mind, he waited, knowing it wouldn’t be long until
his target was intoxicated and the next step of his initiation would come into play.
He had to prove himself to the same people who would see him dead if they really knew who he was.
With a smirk Sythe tightened the shadows wrapped around his body, keeping himself blended into the darkness entirely.
He’d gained the ability not long after his fifth birthday, much to the confusion of his sperm donor. The skill only heightened
over time, to the point not even a vampire could sense him when he was within the shadows.
A few of the Guardians had their own unique abilities inherited from their mothers, but his was the coolest.
Not that he knew his mother. He suspected she was Fae, possibly even a wraith. But he would never know, and honestly, he
didn’t care. Maybe once he’d been interested, but not in a long time. Not since he found out she was paid to birth him. A
monetary agreement between two people, as simple as buying socks.
How wonderful.
It didn’t matter where he came from, or who his parents were. All he cared about was the family he had now. They were
the reason he’d survived his childhood, and now he’d risk everything to keep them safe.
Confident enough time had passed, Sythe released the shadows and stepped out into the light. It was late as he walked
inside the grungy bar, the decor just as he’d expected. The tables were both sticky and dirty, and the patrons were not much
better. Broken licence plates were nailed to the wall, as well as a few newspaper clippings that were mainly various shots of
women with little to no clothes.
“What can I get you?” the bartender said with a rasp only a chain-smoker could have.
“Whisky on the rocks.”
With a nod, the bartender turned, and Sythe slipped into the seat at the edge of the bar. The place was reasonably quiet,
with only a few of the tables at the back occupied. It wasn’t hard to spot the one he came for, the man tall, with wide shoulders
and dark green eyes that were slightly glazed. He’d already had a few beers, the glasses covering the table in front of him.
“Whisky,” the bartender grunted, not bothering with a coaster as he placed the drink on the bar.
Sythe handed over the money, the cheap liquor burning as it went down. He was pretty sure it was anything but fucking
whisky, more like petrol. But still he drank, looking over the rim at Ricky Sanders.
Thirty-five, a non-predatory stag shifter from Aberdeen, Scotland. Mr Sanders had moved to London three years prior,
registering as a loner. It wasn’t a surprise, considering there were no herds in London, the wolves controlling the majority of
the city. Not that there weren’t mixed shifter groups, but it was kind of hard for predator and prey to co-exist without the risk of
being eaten.
Sythe had to prove himself, and what better way than to beat the shit out of a Breed in the name of the fucking Light? A
shifter that wasn’t simply a stag according to a tip off from one of his Network, but a man who liked the company of those
underage.
Poetic fucking justice, Sythe thought, downing the rest of his drink.
He stared at the glass for a few seconds, repulsed by the dirty smears and fingerprints. Gripping it harder, he turned and
threw it straight into Ricky’s face. The glass shattered on impact, the force pushing him from his seat.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 To conveniently support a clothespin basket along the line on
which the clothes are being hung, a wire support can be provided,
bent to form a hook at both ends and the center shaped into a V-
bend. With the basket supported by the two ends, the wire can be
slid along the clothesline as required.—Contributed by N. R. Moore,
Cherokee, Iowa.

¶Varnishing should as a rule be done in a room having a

temperature of 80° F., and in some instances 15° higher is desirable.
 Leather Tire Patch
A leather patch fixed over a tire puncture with shellac will be found
to give satisfaction and may be attached easily. Cut the patch
somewhat larger than the puncture and thin out its edges with a
knife. Melt flakes of shellac in a flame, fusing them, and rub the hot
mixture on the patch and tire, smoothing it down quickly. Such a
patch may be placed over a plug and will aid in holding it in place.—
Contributed by Robert C. Knox, Petersburg, Fla.
 A Perpetual Whirligig
Camphor is the motive power which drives the device shown in the
illustration, and it will cause the whirligig to revolve for several days,
or until the camphor is consumed.

The whirligig is made of a piece of cork, ¹⁄₂ in. square, with a

needle stuck into each of its four sides. Smaller pieces of cork, to
which pieces of camphor have been fixed by means of sealing wax,
are attached to the ends of the needles. Care should be taken to
keep the needles and cork free from oil or grease, as this will retard
their movement. As soon as the device is placed in a dish of water it
will start whirling and continue to do so as long as motive power is
supplied. A small flag or other ornament may be attached to the
center cork.
 Testing and Caring for Files
To test a file hold it so that the light will be reflected sharply from
the teeth and observe whether their edges are flattened and appear
as white lines. If so, the file is dull and should be recut if of
considerable size and value.
Files should not be thrown into drawers and mixed with other
tools, but should be carefully set in racks or drawers for the purpose.
A mechanic would not throw a straightedge into a drawer containing
other tools, and a file should be given similar consideration, as every
nick in the teeth impairs the efficiency of the file.
Files may be sharpened by dipping them into sulphuric acid, but
care must be taken not to permit the acid to come into contact with
one’s clothes or person. Water is used to wash off the acid.
Files should be provided with individual handles. This prevents
injury to the hand of the worker and aids in the proper use of the file.
Handles should be carefully fitted and be made of a size
proportionate to the file. In removing a handle from a file, strike the
handle at the end nearest the file, by sliding a piece of hard wood
along the surface of the file, as the blow is struck with it. Do not use
another file or metal object in thus removing a handle, as it will injure
the latter.
 Catching Large Fish with a Teaspoon
Teaspoons may be made into alluring trolling spoon hooks, of a
size suitable for catching large fish, by the addition of hooks, as
shown in the sketch.
Drill ¹⁄₈-in. holes near the end of the spoon handle, the tip of the
bowl, and near the handle of the latter.
Procure three sets of triple hooks, a line swivel, and a strip of lead,
about 1 in. long. Rivet one end of the swivel and the loop of one of
the triple hooks into the hole of the handle. Wire the lower end of this
triple hook to the handle and with the same piece of copper wire
secure a second triple hook at the thin part of the handle. Drill a hole
through the lead strip and rivet it, together with a third triple hook,
into the upper hole of the bowl. Fix the lower end of this hook by
binding it with copper wire, through the hole near the tip of the bowl.

Once a Fish has Struck This Bait, It Is Seldom Able to Escape

 This hook has been tested in the waters of Puget Sound and is a
deadly lure for rock cod, and other fish weighing up to 12 lb. The
famous barracuda and rock bass of the Catalina Islands have also
been caught with it. By permitting the lure to sink to the bottom and
bringing it up a yard or two with a quick jerk, it acts as a “jig” bait. It
may also be used in trolling. Once a fish has struck, it is seldom able
to escape.—Contributed by O. P. Avery, Los Angeles, Cal.
 An Easily Made Counter

An Accurate Account can be Kept of Parts or Score for Any Game by Pulling
the Strips

From unruled paper cut a piece, as shown at A in the sketch, and

make slits parallel and evenly spaced with a sharp knife. Also cut six
strips, similar to the one shown at B, to fit the slits cut in A. The strips
are numbered as shown and inserted on the under side of A, and by
pulling the strips as shown, one can count up the number of parts or
keep tally on any game. By making more slits and using more strips
very large numbers can be recorded.
¶Be sure to keep the screw and nut in the jaws of a drill chuck clean
and well oiled, to prevent broken screws.
 To Uncork a Bottle with a String
A convenient method of uncorking a bottle, from which liquid is to
be poured frequently, is to thread a strong string or cord through the
cork, tying it in a loop, which remains at the opening of the bottle.
The cork may be removed easily by drawing on the string. This is
more satisfactory than the use of a corkscrew, as the latter frequently
tears the cork.—Lee A. Collins, Louisville, Ky.
 Wood Turning on an Emery Grinder

The Hand Emery Grinder of the Home Workshop Used as a Substitute for a
Lathe

The experimenter often requires small turned-wood pulleys,

circular bases for switches, etc. To produce these it is not necessary
to have recourse to a wood lathe, if a good emery grinder is at hand.
Simply clamp the grinder firmly to the workbench, remove the
grinding wheel, and fasten on a block to serve as a faceplate. This
may be held in place by the nut that holds the wheel and should be
trued up with a small chisel when in place. A tool rest may be
improvised by temporarily nailing one or more blocks of wood to the
bench. The article desired should be first roughed out with a saw and
then fastened to the faceplate with screws or brads, after which the
actual wood turning will require very little time.
 Three Bathroom Kinks
The devices for the bathroom illustrated may be made easily and
contribute to the comfort, convenience, and, in the case of the fixed
window pole, to the safety of the room. A wall curtain, A, placed on
the towel rod, or hung on the wall beside the washbasin, is
especially convenient in keeping the walls unsoiled by children who
make use of the room and are likely to splash suds while washing.
Double roller shades on the window, as at B and C, give light and
privacy as well.
The Fixed Window Pole Is an Inducement to Ventilation; the Curtain Protects
the Wall, and the Lower Shade Gives Light with Privacy

Poor ventilation in bathrooms occasionally causes asphyxiation

and is often a menace. The permanent fixing of the window pole D
makes it convenient to open the window, which operation is often
neglected through fear of drafts from the lower sash and the lack of a
pole. Fig. 2 shows the top of the pole P, provided with a screw eye,
S, which is fastened to a metal strip, H.—D. L. Hough, Toledo, Ohio.
 Prevents Soiling Goods after Oiling Sewing
Machine
To prevent a sewing machine that has been oiled from soiling the
material, the following is a good method: Tie a small piece of ribbon
or cotton string around the needle bar near the point at which it grips
the needle.
 A Pigeon House
By Robert Baker

P igeon houses need not be eyesores, as is often the case, but may
be made to harmonize with the surroundings, adding beauty to a
dull spot, and even making the grounds of a home more attractive.
The house described will accommodate 20 pigeons, and additional
stories of the same type may be added to provide for more. Nearly
all of the wood necessary may be obtained from boxes, and the
other materials are also readily available at small cost. The
construction is such that a boy handy with ordinary carpentry tools
may undertake it successfully.
The house is constructed in general on principles used in
buildings, having a framed gable roof, rough-boarded and shingled.
The interior arrangement is original, being based on the Indian
swastika or good-luck sign. While the construction is simple, it must
be carried out systematically. The process outlined also follows in
general the typical methods in building construction.
The foundation need not be considered, since the house rests
upon a post, and the construction thus begins with the lower story.
The floor and the ceiling are similar in construction, as shown in Fig.
1. In framing them into the lower story, as may be observed in Fig. 8,
the cleats are placed below on the floor and above in the ceiling. The
construction is identical, however. The cleats are fastened to the
boards with screws, although nails, clinched carefully, may be used.
The 4-in. hole at the center should be made accurately, so as to fit
the shoulder portion at the top of the post, shown in Fig. 2. The latter
may be cut of a length to suit; about 9 ft. will be found convenient.
The notches in the top of the post are to fit the ridge pole and center
rafters of the roof frame, as shown in Fig. 10. They should not be
made until the house is ready for the roof boards.
The pieces for the compartments, as arranged on the floor in Fig.
3, are made next. Figs. 4 and 5 show the detailed sizes of these
pieces, of which four each must be made. The sizes shown must be
followed exactly, as they are designed to give the proper space for
entrances and to fit around the 4-in. square hole, through which the
post is to fit. The pieces marked A, B, and C, in Figs. 4 and 5,
correspond to those similarly marked in Fig. 3.
The pieces are nailed together to form the swastika in the
following manner:
Mark the pieces A, B, and C, as shown. Measure 4 in. from one
end of each piece marked A, and square a pencil line across, 4 in.
from the end. Arrange the pieces in pairs. Place one end of one
piece against the side of the other piece in the pair, so that the pencil
line is even with the end, permitting the 4-in. portion to project. Nail
both pairs in this position. Then fit the two parts together to form a 4-
in. square in the center, as shown in Fig. 3.
Fit the pieces C to the pieces B at an angle, as shown in Fig. 3,
trimming off the projecting corners where the pieces are joined. Nail
them together, and they are ready to be fixed to the end of the
pieces A, already nailed. By nailing the joined pieces B and C to the
end of the pieces A, as shown in Fig. 3, the swastika is completed.
Fix it into place, with the center hole exactly over the square hole in
the floor, by means of nails or screws driven through the floor.
Two small strips must now be nailed to the floor at each side of the
swastika. They should be exactly 4¹⁄₂ in. long, and are to hold the
slides, Fig. 9, which shut off the various compartments. The slides
are shown hanging by chains in the headpiece of this article, and are
shown in place in Fig. 8.
Fix the ceiling into place in the same manner, being careful that
the square holes fit together, and that the cleats are on the upper
side. Turn the construction over and fix into place the small strips for
the slides, as was done on the floor.
The fixed screens, Fig. 6, and the doors, Fig. 7, are constructed
similarly. They are built up of ¹⁄₂-in. wood, and vary in size to fit their
respective places in the framework. Observe that the fixed screens
are ¹⁄₄ in. higher than the doors, and that they are fastened between
the ceiling and floor, bracing them. The wire grating is ¹⁄₂-in. square
mesh, and is fixed between the pieces of the doors and the screens
when they are built up.
The doors are shown secured by combination strap hinges, bent
over the baseboard. Plain butts may be used and the lower portion
of the hinge covered by the baseboard, a recess being cut to receive
the part covered. In the latter instance the doors should be fixed into
place immediately after the screens are set. Catches and chains
may then be placed on the doors. Next nail the baseboards into
place. They are 2¹⁄₂ in. wide and may be mitered at the corners, or
fitted together in a square, or butt, joint. The latter joint may be nailed
more readily.
The slides, shown in Fig. 9, may now be made and fitted into their
grooves. The handles are made of strips of band iron, drilled for
screws and bent into the proper shape. It is important that the slides
be constructed of three pieces, as shown, so that they will not warp
or curve from exposure. The main piece is cut 7³⁄₄ in. long, and the
strips, ¹⁄₂ in. square, are nailed on the ends.
The construction of the framing for the roof should next be taken
up. This probably requires more careful work than any other part of
the pigeon house, yet it is simple, as shown in Fig. 10. Note that the
rafters are set upon a frame, or plate as it is called, built up of pieces
3 in. wide. It should be made ¹⁄₄ in. wider and longer on the inside
than the ceiling board, so as to fit snugly over it. The joints at the
corners are “halved” and nailed both ways. This gives a stronger
structure than butting them squarely and nailing them. The end
rafters should be fitted in before fixing the others. It is best to make a
diagram of the end of the roof framing on a sheet of paper, or a
board, and to fit the rafter joints in this way before cutting them. The
rafters are then nailed into place.
The “rough boards” to cover the rafters may now be nailed down.
They are spaced ¹⁄₂ in. apart so as to permit thorough drying, as is
done in larger buildings. They project 2 in. beyond the ends of the
plate frame, supporting the rafters. A ¹⁄₂-in. strip is nailed over the
ends to give a neat finish. The roof may be shingled, or covered with
tar paper, or any roofing material.
Nail a 1-in. strip under each end of the roof and nail the gable
ends into place. One gable end is provided with a door, as shown,
and the other has an opening fitted with a wire screen of the same
size as the door.
The gable story rests on the lower story, and the notches in the top
of the post should fit snugly to the ridge and center rafters, as shown
in Fig. 10. This will aid in supporting the house firmly. If additional
stories are added it would be well to place a post at each corner of
the house. The upper story may be removed for cleaning, or for
transporting the house.